THE  SKETCH-BOOK 


OF 


GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT. 


BY 

WASHINGTON   IRVING. 


NEW 

THE  F.  M.  LUPTON  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 
Nos.  73-76  WALKER  STREET. 


A\ 


TO 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  BABT  t 

THIS  WORK  IS  DEDICATED,  ITS  TESTIMONY 


OP  THE 


ADMIRATION  AND  AFFECTION 


OF 


THE  AUTHOB. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 


"WASHINGTON  IRVING,  the  author  of  this  famous  book,  was 
the  first  American  writer  who  gained  an  European  reputa 
tion  solely  on  the  ground  of  his  literary  ability.  His 
father,  who  was  a  considerable  merchant  of  New  York, 
educated  Washington  for  the  legal  profession;  but  the 
young  man  delighted  in  literature,  and  made  little  effort  to 
practice  at  the  bar.  "Knickerbocker's  History  of  New 
York,''  written  by  Irving,  appeared  in  1809,  when  the 
author  was  twenty-six  years  old,  and  its  originality,  quaint 
ness  and  drollery  gave  him  high  rank  as  a  delicate  humorist. 
He  visited  England,  where  he  was  welcomed  in  the  highest 
literary  circles,  Moore,  Jeffrey,  Campbell,  Scott  and  other 
distinguished  men  being  among  his  intimate  friends.  The 
publisher,  Murray,  at  first  refused  to  print  the  "  Sketch- 
Book ;"  but  through  the  influence  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  who 
was  enthusiastic  in  his  admiration  of  Irving,  Murray 
brought  out  the  book  in  1820.  It  had  already  commenced 
to  appear  in  periodical  form  in  the  United  States,  and  it 
speedily  obtained  a  very  great  fame  on  both  sides  of  the 
Atlantic,  which  it  holds  with  undiminished  lustre  to-day, 
and  will  hold  it  so  long  as  the  love  of  classic  English  shall 
endure.  The  book  is  refined,  poetical  and  picturesque, 
full  of  quaint  humor,  exquisite  feeling,  and  a  thorough 
knowledge  of  human  nature.  Robert  Collyer  tells  us 
that  to  the  "Sketch-Book"  was  largely  due  his  early  thirst 
for  good  reading,  which  laid  the  foundation  of  his  suc 
cess;  and  probably  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  person 


6  INTROD  UCTOR  Y  NOTE. 

who  is  familiar  with  its  pages  who  does  not  cherish  it  as  one 
of  his  most  valued  possessions.  "  The  Spectre  Bridegroom/' 
"The  Broken  Heart,"  "The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow/' 
"  The  Christmas  Dinner,"  "  Rip  Van  Winkle,"  "The  Art 
of  Book-Making/'  "  The  Mutability  of  Literature,"  and 
"  The  Country  Church/'  are  among  the  most  charming 
pieces  of  fancy  and  picturesque  word-painting  to  be  found 
in  any  language.  The  best  of  it  all  is  that  the  fine  quali 
ties  of  his  writings  represented  the  real  qualities  of  his  own 
nature.  The  book  is  an  expression  of  the  man,  and  daily 
converse  with  it  cannot  fail  to  give  us  something  of  the 
beauty,  sweetness  and  nobility  of  his  nature. 

In  1832,  after  an  absence  of  seventeen  years,  Irving- 
returned  to  the  United  States  to  find  his  name  a  house 
hold  word.  He  built  a  home  on  the  Hudson,  and  con 
tinued  his  literary  work  until  his  death  in  1859.  Many 
books  came  from  his  facile  pen  besides  those  of  which  we 
have  spoken,  among  them  a  "Life  of  Washington."  He 
never  married,  being  true  to  an  early  love  that  was  blighted 
by  death;  but  many  a  beautiful  maiden  loves  him  now, 
and  many  a  scholar  keeps  him  in  his  heart  with  Shakes 
peare,  Bacon,  Emerson,  Scott,  and  all  the  noblest  and  best 
whose  lives  are  with  us  in  their  books. 

PABSONS. 


ADVERTISEMENT 

TO    THE 

FIRST  AMERICAN  EDITION. 


THE  following  writings  are  published  on  experiment; 
should  they  please,  they  may  be  followed  by  others.  The 
writer  will  have  to  contend  with  some  disadvantages.  He 
is  unsettled  in  his  abode,  subject  to  interruptions,  and  has 
his  share  of  cares  and  vicissitudes.  He  cannot,  therefore, 
promise  a  regular  plan,  nor  regular. periods  of  publication. 
Should  he  be  encouraged  to  proceed,  much  time  may  elapse 
between  the  appearance  of  his  numbers ;  and  their  size  will 
depend  on  the  materials  he  may  have  on  hand.  His  writ 
ings  will  partake  of  the  fluctuations  of  his  own  thoughts 
and  feelings;  sometimes  treating  of  scenes  before  him, 
sometimes  of  others  purely  imaginary,  and  sometimes  wan 
dering  back  with  his  recollections  to  his  native  country. 
He  will  not  be  able  to  give  them  that  tranquil  attention 
necessary  to  finished  composition;  and  as  they  must  be 
transmitted  across  the  Atlantic  for  publication,  he  will 
have  to  trust  to  others  to  correct  the  frequent  errors  of 
the  press.  Should  his  writings,  however,  with  all  their 
imperfections,  be  well  received,  he  cannot  conceal  that  it 
would  be  a  source  of  the  purest  gratification ;  for  though 
he  does  not  aspire  to  those  high  honors  which  are  the 
rewards  of  loftier  intellects,  yet  it  is  the  dearest  wish  of 
his  heart  to  have  a  secure  and  eherished,  though  humble, 
corner  in  the  good  opinions  and  kind  feelings  of  his 
countrymen. 

London,  1819. 


ADVERTISEMENT 

TO  THE 

FIRST  ENGLISH  EDITION. 


THE  following  desultory  papers  are  part  of  a  series 
written  in  this  country  but  published  in  America.  The 
author  is  aware  of  the  austerity  with  which  the  writings  of 
his  countrymen  have  hitherto  been  treated  by  British 
critics ;  he  is  conscious,  too,  that  much  of  the  contents  of 
his  papers  can  be  interesting  only  in  the  eyes  of  American 
readers.  It  was  not  his  intention,  therefore,  to  have  them 
reprinted  in  this  country.  He  has,  however,  observed 
several  of  them  from  time  to  time  inserted  in  periodical 
works  of  merit,  and  has  understood  that  it  was  prcbable 
they  would  be  published  in  a  collective  form.  He  has 
been  induced,  therefore,  to  revise  and  bring  them  forward 
himself,  that  they  may  at  least  come  correctly  before  the 
public.  Should  they  be  deemed  of  sufficient  importance 
to  attract  the  attention  of  critics,  he  solicits  for  them  that 
courtesy  and  candor  which  a  stranger  has  some  right  to 
claim  who  presents  himself  at  the  threshold  of  a  hospitable 
nation. 

February,  1820. 


:\ 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

Introductory  Note,              ...  5 

Advertisement  to  the  First  American  Edition,  -      7 

Advertisement  to  the  First  English  Edition,       -  8 

The  Author's  Account  of  Himself,  -     11 

The  Voyage,       -                -  •• .             -                -  14 

Roscoe,       -                 -                 -                 -  -    20 

The  Wife,           ....  27 

Rip  Van  Winkle,        -                 .                 -  -    35 

English  Writers  on  America,               -  51 

Rural  Life  in  England,                -                 -  -    60 

The  Broken  Heart,             ...  67 

The  Art  of  Book-Making,                            -  -    73 

A  Royal  Poet,     -  80 

The  Country  Church,                  -                 -  -    93 

The  Widow  and  Her  Son,  -  98 

The  Boar's  Head  Tavern,  Eastcheap,          -  •  105 

The  Mutability  of  Literature,             -                 -  110 

Rural  Funerals,           -  «  12G 

The  Inn  Kitchen,               -                -  137 

The  Spectre  Bridegroom,                              .  -  139 

Westminster  Abbey,           ...  154 


10  CONTENTS. 

Page. 

Christmas,                   -                 -  •                 '  165 

The  Stage-Coach,                -  •                .171 

Christmas  Eve,            -                 -  "                 •  178 

Christmas  Day,  -                 -  -                 .189 

Christmas  Dinner,      -  202 

Little  Britain,     -                 -  -                 -            216 
Stratford-on-Avon,     - 

Traits  of  Indian  Character,  -                             247 

Philip  of  Pokanoket,  -  -  258 

John  Bull,  274 

The  Pride  of  the  Village,  -  285 

The  Angler,        -  294i 
The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow,   - 
Postscript,                             • 

L'Envoy,    -                -                •  •                •  335I 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

OF 

GEOFFREY  CRAYON    GENT. 


"I  have  no  wife  nor  children,  good  or  bad,  to  provide  for.  A 
mere  spectator  of  other  men's  fortunes  and  adventures,  and  how  they 
play  their  parts  ;  which,  methinks,  are  diversely  presented  unto  me, 
as  from  a  common  theatre  or  scene." — BUKTON. 


L     THE  AUTHOK'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIMSELF. 

I  am  of  this  mind  with  Homer,  that  as  the  snaile  that  crept  out  of 
her  shel  was  turned  eftsoones  into  a  toad,  and  thereby  was  forced  to 
make  a  stoole  to  sit  on;  so  the  traveller  that  stragleth  from  his  owne 
country  is  in  a  short  time  transformed  into  so  monstrous  a  shape, 
that  he  is  faine  to  alter  his  mansion  with  his  manners,  and  to  live 
where  he  can,  not  where  he  would. — Lyly's  Euphues. 

I  WAS  always  fond  of  visiting  new  scenes  and  observing 
strange  characters  and  manners.  Even  when  a  mere  child 
I  began  my  travels,  and  made  many  tours  of  discovery  into 
foreign  parts  and  unknown  regions  of  my  native  city,  to  the 
frequent  alarm  of  my  parents,  and  tbe  emolument  of  the 
town  crier.  As  I  grew  into  boybood,  I  extended  the  range 
of  my  observations.  My  holiday  afternoons  were  spent 
in  rambles  about  the  surrounding  country.  I  made 
myself  familiar  with  all  its  places  famous  in  history  or 
fable.  I  knew  every  spot  where  a  murder  or  robbery  had 
been  committed,  or  a  ghost  seen.  I  visited  the  neighbor 
ing  villages,  and  added  greatly  to  my  stock  of  knowledge, 
by  noting  their  habits  and  customs,  and  conversing  with 
their  savages  and  great  men.  I  even  journeyed  one  long 
summer's  day  to  the  summit  of  the  most  distant  hill,  from 
whence  I  stretched  my  eye  over  many  a  mile  of  terra  in 
cognita,  and  was  astonished  to  find  how  vast  a  globe  I  in 
habited. 


12  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

This  rambling  propensity  strengthened  with  my  years. 
Books  of  voyages  and  travels  became  rny  passion,  and  in 
devouring  their  contents,  I  neglected  the  regular  exercises 
of  the  school.  How  wistfully  would  I  wander  about  the  pier 
heads  in  fine  weather,  and  watch  the  parting  ships,  bound 
to  distant  climes — with  what  longing  eyes  would  I  gaze 
after  their  lessening  sails,  and  waft  myself  in  imagination 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth! 

Farther  reading  and  thinking,  though  they  brought  this 
vague  inclination  into  more  reasonable  bounds,  only  served 
to  make  it  more  decided.  I  visited  various  parts  of  my 
own  country ;  and  had  I  been  merely  influenced  by  a  love 
of  fine  scenery,  I  should  have  felt  little  desire  to  seek  else 
where  its  gratification:  for  on  no  country  had  the  charms 
of  nature  been  more  prodigally  lavished.  Her  mighty 
lakes,  like  oceans  of  liquid  silver;  her  mountains,  with  their 
bright  aerial  tints;  her  valleys,  teeming  with  wild  fertil 
ity;  her  tremendous  cataracts,  thundering  in  their  soli 
tudes;  her  boundless  plains,  waving  with  spontaneous  ver 
dure;  her  broad  deep  rivers,  rolling  in  solemn  silence  to  the 
ocean;  her  trackless  forests,  where  vegetation  puts  forth 
all  its  magnificence;  her  skies,  kindling  with  the  magic  of 
summer  clouds  and  glorious  sunshine: — no,  never  need  an 
American  look  beyond  his  own  country  for  the  sublime 
and  beautiful  of  natural  scenery. 

But  Europe  held  forth  all  the  charms  of  storied   and 
poetical  association.     There  were  to  be  seen  the  master 
pieces  of  art,  the  refinements  of  highly  cultivated  society, 
the  quaint  peculiarities  of  ancient  and  local  custom.     My 
native  country  was  full  of  youthful  promise;  Europe  was 
rich  in  the  accumulated  treasures  of  age.     Her  very  ruins 
told  the  history  of  times  gone  by,  and   every  mouldering 
stone  was  a  chronicle.     I  longed  to  wander  over  the  scenes 
of  renowned  achievement — to  tread,  as  it  were,  in  the  foot- ; 
steps  of  antiquity — to  loiter  about  the  ruined-  castle — to  j 
meditate  on  the  falling  tower — to  escape,  in  short,  from  ' 
the  commonplace  realities  of  the  present,  and  lose  myself 
among  the  shadowy  grandeurs  of  the  past. 

t  had,  besides  all  this,  an  earnest  desire  to  see  the  great  : 
men  of  the  earth.  We  have,  it  is  true,  our  great  men  in] 
America:  not  a  city  but  has  an  ample  share  of  them.  I] 
have  mingled  among  them  in  my  time,  and  been  almost  with- 


THE  A  UTKORS  A  CCO  VtfT  0  f  HIMSELJ?.  1$ 

ered  by  the  shade  into  which  they  east  me;  for  there  is  noth 
ing  so  baleful  to  a  small  man  as  the  shade  of  a  great  one, 
particularly  the  great  man  of  a  city.  But  I  was  anxious  to 
see  the  great  men  of  Europe;  for  I  had  read  in  the  works 
of  various  philosophers,  that  all  animals  degenerated  in 
America,  and  man  among  the  number.  A  great  man  of 
Europe,  thought  I,  must  therefore  be  as  superior  to  a  great 
man  of  America,  as  a  peak  of  the  Alps  to  a  highland  of  the 
Hudson;  and  in  this  idea  I  was  confirmed,  by  observing  the 
comparative  importance  and  swelling  magnitude  of  many 
English  travellers  among  us,  who,  I  was  assured,  were  very 
little  people  in  their  own  country.  I  will  visit  this  land  of 
wonders,  thought  I,  and  see  the  gigantic  race  from  which 
I  am  degenerated. 

It  has  been  either  my  good  or  evil  lot  to  have  my  roving 
passion  gratified.  I  have  wandered  through  different  coun 
tries  and  witnessed  many  of  the  shifting  scenes  of  life.  I 
cannot  say  that  I  have  studied  them  with  the  eye  of  a  philoso 
pher,  but  rather  with  the  same  sauntering  gaze  with  which 
humble  lovers  of  the  picturesque  stroll  from  the  window  of 
one  print-shop  to  another;  caught  sometimes  by  the  deline 
ations  of  beauty,  sometimes  by  the  distortions  of  caricature, 
and  sometimes  by  the  loveliness  of  landscape.  As  it  is  the 
fashion  for  modern  tourists  to  travel  pencil  in  hand,  and 
bring  home  their  portfolios  filled  with  sketches,  I  am  dis 
posed  to  get  up  a  few  for  the  entertainment  of  my  friends. 
When,  however,  I  look  over  the  hints  and  memorandums  I 
have  taken  down  for  the  purpose,  my  heart  almost  fails  me, 
at  finding  how  my  idle  humor  has  led  me  aside  from  the 
great  object  studied  by  every  regular  traveller  who  would 
make  a  book.  I  fear  I  shall  give  equal  disappointment  with 
an  unlucky  landscape-painter,  who  had  travelled  on  the  con 
tinent,  but  following  the  bent  of  his  vagrant  inclination, 
had  sketched  in  nooks,  and  corners,  and  by-places.  His 
sketch-book  was  accordingly  crowded  with  cottages,  and 
landscapes,  and  obscure  ruins;  but  he  had  neglected  to  paint 
St.  Peter's,  or  the  Coliseum;  the  cascade  of  Terni.  or  the 
bay  of  Naples;  and  had  not  a  single  glacier  or  volcaiw*  aa 
his  whole  collection. 


14  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


THE  VOYAGE. 

Ships,  ships,  I  will  descrie  you 

Amidst  the  main, 
I  will  come  and  try  you, 
What  you  are  protecting, 
And  projecting, 

What's  your  end  and  aim. 
One  goes  abroad  for  merchandise  and  trading, 
Another  stays  to  keep  his  country  from  invading, 
A  third  is  corning  home  with  rich  and  wealthy  lading, 
Hallo!  my  fancie,  whither  wilt  thou  go? 

OLD  POEM. 

To  an  American  visiting  Europe,  the  long  voyage  he  has 
to  make  is  an  excellent  preparative.  The  temporary  ab 
sence  of  wordly  scenes  and  employments  produces  a  state 
of  mind  peculiarly  fitted  to  receive  new  and  vivid  impres 
sions.  The  vast  space  of  waters  that  separates  the  hemi 
spheres  is  like  a  blank  page  in  existence.  There  is  no 
gradual  transition  by  which,  as  in  Europe,  the  features 
and  population  of  one  country  blend  almost  imperceptibly 
with  those  of  another.  From  the  moment  you  lose  sight 
of  the  land  you  have  left,  all  is  vacancy,  until  you  step  on 
the  opposite  shore,  and  are  launched  at  once  into  the  bustle 
and  novelties  of  another  world. 

In  travelling  by  land  there  is  a  continuity  of  scene,  and 
a  connected  succession  of  persons  and  incidents,  that  carry 
on  the  story  of  life,  and  lessen  the  effect  of  absence  and 
separation.  We  drag,  it  is  true,  "a,  lengthening  chain" 
at  each  remove  of  our  pilgrimage;  but  the  chain  is  un 
broken;  we  can  trace  it  back  link  by  link;  and  we  feel 
that  the  last  of  them  still  grapples  us  to  home.  But  a 
wide  sea  voyage  severs  us  at  once.  It  makes  us  conscious 
of  being  cast  loose  from  the  secure  anchorage  of  settled 
life,  and  sent  adrift  upon  a  doubtful  world.  It  interposes 
a  gulf,  not  merely  imaginary,  but  real,  between  us  and  our 
homes — a  gulf,  subject  to  tempest,  and  fear,  and  uncer 
tainty,  that  makes  distance  palpable,  and  return  precarious. 


THE  VOYAGE.  15 

Such,  at  least,  was  the  case  with  myself.  As  I  saw  the 
last  blue  line  of  my  native  land  fade  away  like  a  cloud  in 
the  horizon,  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  closed  one  volume  of  the 
world  and  its  concerns,  and  had  time  for  meditation,  be 
fore  I  opened  another.  That  land,  too,  now  vanishing 
from  my  view,  which  contained  all  that  was  most  dear  to 
me  in  life;  what  vicissitudes  might  occur  in  it — what 
changes  might  take  place  in  me  before  I  should  visit  it 
again!  Who  can  tell,  when  he  sets  forth  to  wander, 
whither  he  may  be  driven  by  the  uncertain  currents  of  ex 
istence;  or  when  he  may  return;  or  whether  it  may  be 
ever  his  lot  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  his  childhood? 

I  said,  that  at  sea  all  is  vacancy;  I  should  correct  the  ex 
pression.  To  one  given  to  day  dreaming,  and  fond  of 
losing  himself  in  reveries,  a  sea  voyage  is  full  of  subjects 
for  meditation;  but  then  they  are  the  wonders  of  the  deep 
and  of  the  air,  and  rather  tend  to  abstract  the  mind  from 
worldly  themes.  I  delighted  to  loll  over  the  quarter-rail 
ing  or  climb  to  the  main-top,  of  a  calm  day,  and  muse  for 
hours  together  on  the  tranquil  bosom  of  a  summer's  sea; — 
to  gaze  upon  the  piles  of  golden  clouds  just  peering  above 
the  horizon;  fancy  them  some  fairy  realms,  and  people 
them  with  a  creation  of  my  own; — to  watch  the  gentle  un 
dulating  billows,  rolling  their  silver  volumes,  as  if  to  die 
away  on  those  happy  shores. 

There  was  a  delicious  sensation  of  mingled  security  and 
awe  with  which  I  looked  down,  from  my  giddy  height,  on 
the  monsters  of  the  deep  at  their  uncouth  gambols:  shoals 
of  porpoises  tumbling  about  the  bow  of  the  ship;  the 
grampus,  slowly  heaving  his  huge  form  above  the  surface; 
or  the  ravenous  shark,  darting,  like  a  spectre,  through  the 
blue  waters.  My  imagination  would  conjure  up  all  that  I 
had  heard  or  read  of  the  Avatery  world  beneath  me:  of  the 
finny  herds  that  roam  its  fathomless  valleys;  of  the  shape 
less  monsters  that  lurk  among  the  very  foundations  of  the 
earth,  and  of  those  wild  phantasms  that  swell  the  tales  of 
fishermen  and  sailors. 

Sometimes  a  distant  sail,  gliding  along  the  edge  of  the 
ocean,  would  be  another  theme  of  idle  speculation.  Ho'.v 
interesting  this  fragment  of  a  world,  hastening  to  rejoin 
the  great  mass  of  existence  !  What  a  glorious  monument 
of  human  invention ;  that  has  thus  triumphed  over  wind 


16  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

and  wave ;  has  brought  the  ends  of  the  world  into  com 
munion  ;  has  established  an  interchange  of  blessings,  pour 
ing  into  the  sterile  regions  of  the  north  all  the  luxuries  of 
the  south ;  has  diffused  the  light  of  knowledge,  and  the 
charities  of  cultivated  life ;  and  has  thus  bound  together 
those  scattered  portions  of  the  human  race,  between  which 
nature  seemed  to  have  thrown  an  insurmountable  barrier. 

We  one  day  described  some  shapeless  object  drifting  at  a 
distance.  At  sea,  everything  that  breaks  the  monotony  of 
the  surrounding  expanse  attracts  attention.  It  proved  to 
be  the  mast  of  a  ship  that  must  have  been  completely 
wrecked  ;  for  there  were  the  remains  of  handkerchiefs,  by 
which  some  of  the  crew  had  fastened  themselves  to  this 
spar,  to  prevent  their  being  washed  off  by  the  waves. 
There  was  no  trace  by  which  the  name  of  the  ship  could  be 
ascertained.  The  wreck  had  evidently  drifted  about  for 
many  months;  clusters  of  shell-fish  had  fastened  about  it, 
and  long  sea-weeds  flaunted  at  its  sides.  But  where, 
thought  I,  is  the  crew  ?  Their  struggle  has  long  been 
over — they  have  gone  down  amidst  the  roar  of  the  tempest 
— their  bones  lie  whitening  among  the  caverns  of  the  deep. 
Silence,  oblivion,  like  the  waves,  have  closed  over  them, 
and  no  one  can  tell  the  story  of  their  end.  What  sighs 
have  been  wafted  after  that  ship ;  what  prayers  offered  up 
at  the  deserted  fireside  of  home  !  How  often  has  the  mis 
tress,  the  wife,  the  mother,  pored  over  the  daily  news, 
news,  to  catch  some  casual  intelligence  of  this  rover  of  the 
deep !  How  has  expectation  darkened  into  anxiety — 
anxiety  into  dread — and  dread  into  despair !  Alas !  not 
one  memento  shall  ever  return  for  love  to  cherish.  All 
that  shall  ever  be  known,  is  that  she  sailed  from  her  port, 
"and  was  never  heard  of  more  \" 

The  sight  of  this  wreck,  as  usual,  gave  rise  to  many  dis 
mal  anecdotes.  This  was  particularly  the  case  in  the  even 
ing,  when  the  weather,  which  had  hitherto  been  fair,  began 
to  look  wild  and  threatening,  and  gave  indications  of  one 
of  those  sudden  storms  that  will  sometimes  break  in  upon 
the  serenity  of  a  summer  voyage.  As  we  sat  round  the 
dull  light  of  a  lamp,  in  the  cabin,  that  made  the  gloom 
more  ghastly,  every  one  had  his  tale  of  shipwreck  and  dis 
aster.  I  was  particularly  struck  with  a  short  one  related 
by  the  captain : 


THE  VOYAGE.  17 

"As  I  was  once  sailing,"  said  he,  "in  a  fine,  stout  ship, 
across  the  banks  of  Newfoundland,  one  of  those  heavy  fogs 
that  prevail  in  those  parts  rendered  it  impossible  for  us  to 
see  far  ahead,  even  in  the  daytime;  but  at  night  the 
weather  was  so  thick  that  we  could  not  distinguish  any 
object  at  twice  the  length  of  the  ship.  I  kept  lights  at  the 
mast-head,  and  a  constant  watch  forward  to  look  out  for 
fishing  smacks,  which  are  accustomed  to  lie  at  anchor  on 
the  banks.  The  wind  was  blowing  a  smacking  breeze,  and 
we  were  going  at  a  great  rate  through  the  water.  Suddenly 
the  watch  gave  the  alarm  of  '  a  sail  a-head ! ' — it  was 
scarcely  uttered  before  we  were  upon  her.  She  was  a  small 
schooner,  at  anchor,  with  a  broadside  toward  us.  The 
crew  were  ail  asleep,  and  had  neglected  to  hoist  a  light. 
We  struck  her  just  amid-ships.  The  force,  the  size,  the 
weight  of  our  vessel,  bore  her  down  below  the  waves ;  we 
passed  over  her  and  were  hurried  on  our  course.  As  the 
crashing  wreck  was  sinking  beneath  us,  I  had  a  glimpse  of 
two  or  three  half-naked  wretches,  rushing  from  her  cabin  ; 
they  just  started  from  their  beds  to  be  swallowed  shrieking 
by  the  waves.  I  heard  their  drowning  cry  mingling  with 
the  wind.  The  blast  that  bore  it  to  our  ears,  swept  us  all 
out  of  all  farther  hearing.  I  shall  never  forget  that  cry  !  It 
was  some  time  before  we  could  put  the  ship  about,  she  was 
under  such  headway.  We  returned  as  nearly  as  we  could 
guess,  to  the  place  where  the  smack  had  anchored.  We 
cruised  about  for  several  hours  in  the  dense  fog.  WTe  fired 
signal-guns,  and  listened  if  we  might  hear  the  halloo  of 
any  survivors ;  but  all  was  silent — we  never  saw  or  heard 
anything  of  them  more." 

I  confess  these  stories,  for  a  time,  put  an  end  to  all  my 
fine  fancies.  The  storm  increased  with  the  night.  The 
sea  was  lashed  into  tremendous  confusion.  There  was  a 
fearful,  sullen  sound  of  rushing  waves  and  broken  surges. 
Deep  called  unto  deep.  At  times  the  black  volume  of 
clouds  overhead  seemed  rent  asunder  by  flashes  of  light 
ning  that  quivered  along  the  foaming  billows,  and  made 
the  succeeding  darkness  doubly  terrible.  The  thunders 
bellowed  over  the  wild  waste  OT  waters,  and  were  echoed 
and  prolonged  by  the  mountain  waves.  As  I  saw  the  ship 
staggering  and  plunging  among  these  roaring  caverns,  it 
seemed  miraculous  that  she  regained  her  balance,  or  pre- 


18  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

served  her  buoyancy.  Her  yards  would  dip  into  the  wate] 
her  bow  was  almost  buried  beneath  the  waves.  Sometime 
an  impending  surge  appeared  ready  to  overwhelm  her,  an 
nothing  but  a  dexterous  movement  of  the  helm  preserve 
her  from  the  shock. 

When  I  retired  to  my  cabin,  the  awful  scene  still  fo'. 
lowed  me.  The  whistling  of  the  wind  through  the  riggin 
sounded  like  funereal  wailings.  The  creaking  of  th 
musts ;  the  straining  and  groaning  of  bulk-heads,  as  th 
ship  labored  in  the  weltering  sea,  were  frightful.  As 
heard  the  waves  rushing  along  the  side  of  the  ship,  am 
roaring  in  my  very  ear,  it  seemed  as  if  Death  were  raginj 
round  this  floating  prison,  seeking  for  his  prey:  the  mer 
starting  of  a  nail,  the  yawning  of  a  seam,  might  give  hin 
entrance. 

A  fine  day,  however,  with  a  tranquil  sea  and  favoring 
breeze,  soon  put  all  these  dismal  reflections  to  flight.  I 
is  impossible  to  resist  the  gladdening  influence  of  fin 
weather  and  fair  wind  at  sea.  When  the  ship  is  deckec 
out  in  all  her  canvas,  every  sail  swelled,  and  careerin; 
gayly  over  the  curling  waves,  how  lofty,  how  gallant,  slit 
appears — how  she  seems  to  lord  it  over  the  deep  !  I  migh 
fill  a  volume  with  the  reveries  of  a  sea  voyage ;  for  wit! 
me  it  is  almost  a  continual  reverie — but  it  is  time  to  get  to 
shore. 

It  was  a  fine  sunny  morning  when  the  thrilling  cry  o 
"land  !"  was  given  from  the  mast-head.     None  but  thos 
who  have  experienced  it  can  form  an  idea  of  the  deliciou 
throng  of  sensations  which  rush  into  an  American's  bosom 
when  he  first  comes  in  sight  of  Europe.    There  is  a  volume 
of  associations  with  the  very  name.     It  is  the  land  oif 
promise,  teeming  with  everything  of  which  his  childhood 
has  heard,  or  on  which  his  studious  years  have  pondered. 

From  that  time,  until  the  moment  of  arrival,  it  was  all 
feverish  excitement.     The  ships  of  war,  that  prowled  like; 
guardian  giants  along  the  coast;  the  headlands  of  Ireland, 
stretching  out  into  the  channel ;  the  WTelsh  mountains  tow-< 
ering  into  the  clouds  !  all  were  objects  of  intense  interest. 
As  we  sailed  up  the  Mersey,  I  reconnoitred  the  shores  with1 
a  telescope.     My  eye  dwelt  with  delight  on  neat  cottages,; 
with  their  trim  shrubberies  and  green  grass-plots.     I  saw] 
the  mouldering  ruin  of  an  abbey  overrun  with  ivy,  and  thai 


THE  VOYAGE.  19 

iper  spire  of  a  village  church  rising  from  the  brow  of  a 

ighboring  hill — all  were  characteristic  of  England. 

The  tide  and  wind  were  so  favorable,  that  the  ship  was 
labled  to  come  at  once  to  the  pier.  It  was  thronged  with 
eople;  some  idle  lookers-on,  others  eager  expectants  of 
lends  or  relations.  I  could  distinguish  the  merchant  to 
horn  the  ship  was  consigned.  I  knew  him  by  his  calcu- 
iting  brow  and  restless  air.  His  hands  were  thrust  into 
is  pockets;  he  was  whistling  thoughtfully,  and  walking 
o  and  fro,  a  small  space  having  been  accorded  him  by  the 
rowd,  in  deference  to  his  temporary  importance.  There 
ere  repeated  cheerings  and  salutations  interchanged  be- 
ween  the  shore  and  the  ship,  as  friends  happened  to 
jcognize  each  other.  I  particularly  noticed  one  young 
oman  of  humble  dress,  but  interesting  demeanor.  She 
as  leaning  forward  from  among  the  crowd ;  her  eye  hur- 
led  over  the  ship  as  it  neared  the  shore,  to  catch  some 
rished-for  countenance.  She  seemed  disappointed  and 
gitated ;  when  I  heard  a  faint  voice  call  her  name. — It 
ras  from  a  poor  sailor  who  had  been  ill  all  the  voyage, 
nd  had  excited  the  sympathy  of  every  one  on  board. 
Vhen  the  weather  was  fine,  his  messmates  had  spread  a 
nattress  for  him  on  deck  in  the  shade,  but  of  late  his 
Iness  had  so  increased  that  he  had  taken  to  his  hammock, 
nd  only  breathed  a  wish  that  he  might  see  his  wife  before 
e  died.  He  had  been  helped  on  deck  as  we  came  up  the 
iver,  and  was  now  leaning  against  the  shrouds,  with  a 
ountenance  so  wasted,  so  pale,  so  ghastly,  that  it  was  no 

onder  even  the  eye  of  affection  did  not  recognize  him. 

ut  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  her  eye  darted  on  his 
satures :  it  read,  at  once,  a  whole  volume  of  sorrow ;  she 
Gasped  her  hands,  uttered  a  faint  shriek,  and  stood  wring- 
ig  them  in  silent  agony. 

All  now  was  hurry  and  bustle.  The  meetings  of  ac- 
uaintances — the  greetings  of  friends — the  consultation  of 
len  of  business.  I  alone  was  solitary  and  idle.  I  had  no 
•iend  to  meet,  no  cheering  to  receive.  I  stepped  upon 
ic  land  of  my  forefathers — but  felt  that  I  was  a  stranger 

the  land. 


20  ?BE  SKETCH-BOOS. 


EOSCOB. 

In  the  service  of  mankind  to  be 

A  guardian  god  below;  still  to  employ 
The  mind's  brave  ardor  in  heroic  aims, 
Such  as  may  raise  us  o'er  the  grovelling  herd, 
And  make  us  shine  forever — that  is  life. 

THOMSON. 

of  the  first  places  to  which  a  stranger  is  taken  i 
Liverpool,  is  the  Athenaeum.  It  is  established  on  a  liberi 
and  judicious  plan;  it  contains  a  good  library,  and  spaciou 
reading-room,  and  is  the  great  literary  resort  of  the  place 
Go  there  at  what  hour  you  may,  you  are  sure  to  find 
filled  with  grave-looking  personages,  deeply  absorbed  i 
the  study  of  newspapers. 

As  I  was  once  visiting  this  haunt  of  the  learned,  my  a 
tention  was  attracted  to  a  person  just  entering  the  room 
He  was  advanced  in  life,  tall,  and  of  a  form  that  migb 
once  have  been  commanding,  but  it  was  a  little  bowed  b 
time — perhaps  by  care.     He  had  a  noble  Roman  style 
countenance;   a  head  that  would  have  pleased  a  painter 
and  though  some  slight  furrows  on  his  brow  showed  tha 
wasting  thought  had  been  busy  there,  yet  his  eye   sti 
beamed  with  the  fire  of  a  poetic  soul.     There  was  some 
thing  in  his  whole  appearance  that  indicated  a  being  of 
different  order  from  the  bustling  race  around  him. 

I  inquired  his  name,  and  was  informed  that  it  was  Ros* 
COE.  I  drew  back  with  an  involuntary  feeling  of  venera 
tion.  This,  then,  was  an  author  of  celebrity;  this  was  on 
of  those  men  whose  voices  have  gone  forth  to  the  ends  q 
the  earth;  with  whose  minds  I  have  communed  even  i 
the  solitudes  of  America.  Accustomed,  as  we  are  in  on 
country,  to  know  European  writers  only  by  their  workg 
we  cannot  conceive  of  them,  as  of  other  men,  engrossed  b; 
trial  or  sordid  pursuits,  and  jostling  with  the  crowds  q 
common  minds  in  the  dusty  paths  of  life.  They  pass  be 
fore  our  imaginations  like  superior  beings,  radiant  witl 


noscoK.  21 

the  emanations  of  their  own  genius,  and  surrounded  by  a 
halo  of  literary  glory. 

To  find,  therefore,  the  elegant  historian  of  the  Medici 
mingling  among  the  busy  sons  of  traffic,  at  first  shocked 
my  poetical  ideas;  but  it  is  from  the  very  circumstances 
and  situation  in  which  he  has  been  placed,  that  Mr.  Eoscoe 
derives  his  highest  claims  to  admiration.  It  is  interesting 
to  notice  how  some  minds  seem  almost  to  create  themselves; 
springing  up  under  every  disadvantage,  and  working  their 
solitary  but  irresistible  way  through  a  thousand  obstacles. 
Nature  seems  to  delight  in  disappointing  the  assiduities  of 
art,  with  which  it  would  rear  legitimate  dulness  to  maturity; 
and  to  glory  in  the  vigor  and  luxuriance  of  her  chance  pro 
ductions.  She  scatters  the  seeds  of  genius  to  the  winds, 
and  though  some  may  perish  among  the  stony  places  of  the 
world,  and  some  be  choked  by  the  thorns  and  brambles  of 
early  adversity,  yet  others  will  now  and  then  strike  root 
even  in  the  clefts  of  the  rock,  struggle  bravely  up  into  sun 
shine,  and  spread  over  their  sterile  birth-place  all  the  beau 
ties  of  vegetation. 

Such  has  been  the  case  with  Mr.  Eoscoe.  Born  in  a  place 
apparently  ungenial  to  the  growth  of  literary  talent;  in  the 
very  market-place  of  trade;  without  fortune,  family  connec 
tions,  or  patronage;  self-prompted,  self-sustained,  and  almost 
self-taught,  he  has  conquered  every  obstacle,  achieved  his 
way  to  eminence,  and  having  become  one  of  the  ornaments 
of  the  nation,  has  turned  the  whole  force  of  his  talents  and 
influence  to  advance  and  embellish  his  native  town. 

Indeed,  it  is  this  last  trait  in  his  character  which  has 
given  him  the  greatest  interest  in  my  eyes,  and  induced  me 
particularly  to  point  him  out  to  my  countrymen.  Eminent 
as  are  his  literary  merits,  he  is  but  one  among  the  many  dis 
tinguished  authors  of  this  intellectual  nation.  They,  how 
ever,  in  general,  live  but  for  their  own  fame,  or  their  own 
pleasures.  Their  private  history  presents  no  lesson  to  the 
world,  or,  perhaps,  a  humiliating  one  of  human  frailty  and 
inconsistency.  At  best,  they  are  prone  to  steal  away  from 
the  bustle  and  commonplace  of  busy  existence;  to  indulge 
in  the  selfishness  of  lettered  ease;  and  to  revel  in  scenes 
of  mental,  but  exclusive  enjoyment. 

Mr.  Eoscoe,  on  the  contrary,  has  claimed  none  of  the  ac 
corded  privileges  of  talent.  He  has  shut  himself  up  in  no 


22  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

garden  of  thought,  nor  elysium  of  fancy;  but  has  gone  forth 
into  the  highways  and  thoroughfares  of  life,  he  has  planted 
bowers  by  the  wayside,  for  the  refreshment  of  the  pilgrim 
and  the  sojourner,  and  has  opened  pure  fountains,  where  the 
laboring  man  may  turn  aside  from  the  dust  and  heat  of  the 
day,  and  drink  of  the  living  streams  of  knowledge.  There 
is  a  ''daily  beauty  in  his  life,"  on  which  mankind,  may 
meditate,  and  grow  better.  It  exhibits  no  lofty  and  almost 
useless,  because  inimitable,  example  of  excellence;  but  pre 
sents  a  picture  of  active,  yet  simple  and  imitable  virtues, 
which  are  within  every  man's  reach,  but  which,  unfortu 
nately,  are  not  exercised  by  many,  or  this  world  would  be 
a  paradise. 

But  his  private  life  is  peculiarly  worthy  the  attention  of  \ 
the  citizens  of  our  young  and  busy  country,  where  literature 
and  the  elegant  arts  must  grow  up  side  by  side  with  the  ! 
coarser  plants  of  daily  necessity;  and  must  depend  for  their 
culture,  not  on  the  exclusive  devotion  of  time  and  wealth; 
nor  the  quickening  rays  of  titled  patronage;  but  on  hours  j 
and  seasons  snatched  from  the  pursuit  of  worldly  interests,  } 
by  intelligent  and  public-spirited  individuals. 

lie  has  shown  how  much  may  be  done  for  a  place  in  1 
hours  of  leisure  by  one  master  spirit,  and  how  completely  i 
it  can  give  its  own  impress  to  surrounding  objects.  Like  1 
his  own  Lorenzo  De  Medici,  on  whom  he  seems  to  have  ] 
fixed  his  eye,  as  on  a  pure  model  of  antiquity,  he  has  inter 
woven  the  history  of  his  life  with  the  history  of  his  native 
town,  and  has  made  the  foundations  of  its  fame  the  monu 
ments  of  his  virtues.  Wherever  you  go,  in  Liverpool,  you 
perceive  traces  of  his  footsteps  in  all  that  is  elegant  and  lib 
eral.  He  found  the  tide  of  wealth  flowing  merely  in  the 
channels  of  traffic;  he  has  diverted  from  it  invigorating 
rills  to  refresh  the  gardens  of  literature.  By  his  own  ex 
ample  and  constant  exertions,  he  has  effected  that  union  of 
commerce  and  the  intellectual  pursuits,  so  eloquently 
recommended  in  one  of  his  latest  writings;  *  and  has  prac 
tically  proved  how  beautifully  they  may  be  brought  to  har 
monize,  and  to  benefit  each  other.  The  noble  institutions 
for  literary  and  scientific  purposes,  which  reflect  such 
credit  on  Liverpool  and  are  giving  such  an  impulse  to  the 
public  mind,  have  mostly  been  originated,  and  have  all 
*  Address  on  the  opening  of  the  Liverpool  Institution 


BOSCOE.  23 

been  effectively  'promoted,  by  Mr.  Roscoe;  and  when  we 
consider  the  rapidly  increasing  opulence  and  magnitude  of 
that  town,  which  promises  to  vie  in  commercial  importance 
with  the  metropolis,  it  will  be  perceived  that  in  awakening 
an  ambition  of  mental  improvement  among  its  inhabitants, 
he  has  effected  a  great  benefit  to  the  cause  of  British  liter 
ature. 

In  America,  we  know  Mr.  Roscoe  only  as  the  author — in 
Liverpool,  he  is  spoken  of  as  the  banker;  and  I  was  told  of 
his  having  been  unfortunate  in  business.  I  could  not  pity 
him,  as  I  heard  some  rich  men  do.  I  considered  him  far 
above  the  reach  of  my  pity.  Those  who  live  only  for  the 
world,  and  in  the  world,  may  be  cast  down  by  the  frowns 
of  adversity;  but  a  man  like  Roscoe  is  not  to  be  overcome 
by  the  reverses  of  fortune.  They  do  but  drive  him  in  upon 
the  resources  of  his  own  mind;  to  the  superior  society  of 
his  own  thoughts;  which  the  best  of  men  are  apt  sometimes 
to  neglect,  and  to  roam  abroad  in  search  of  less  worthy 
associates.  He  is  independent  of  the  world  around  him. 
He  lives  with  antiquity,  and  with  posterity:  with  antiquity, 
in  the  sweet  communion  of  studious  retirement;  and  with 
posterity,  in  the  generous  aspirings  after  future  renown. 
The  solitude  of  such  a  mind  is  its  state  of  highest  enjoy 
ment.  It  is  then  visited  by  those  elevated  meditations 
which  are  the  proper  ailment  of  noble  souls,  and  are,  like 
manna,  sent  from  heaven,  in  the  wilderness  of  this  world. 

While  my  feelings  were  yet  alive  on  the  subject,  it  was 
my  fortune  to  light  on  farther  traces  of  Mr.  Roscoe.  I  was 
riding  out  with  a  gentleman,  to  view  the  environs  of  Liver 
pool,  when  he  turned  off,  through  a  gate,  into  some  orna 
mented  grounds.  After  riding  a  short  distance,  we  came 
to  a  spacious  mansion  of  freestone,  built  in  the  Grecian 
style.  It  was  not  in  the  purest  taste,  yet  it  had  an  air  of 
elegance,  and  the  situation  was  delightful.  A  fine  lawn 
sloped  away  from  it,  studded  with  clumps  of  trees,  so  dis 
posed  as  to  break  a  soft  fertile  country  into  a  variety  of 
landscapes.  The  Mersey  was  seen  winding  a  broad  quiet 
sheet  of  water  through  an  expanse  of  green  meadow  land; 
while  the  Welsh  mountains,  blending  with  clouds,  and 
melting  into  distance,  bordered  the  horizon. 

This  was  Roscoe's  favorite  residence  during  the  days  of 
his  prosperity.  It  had  been  the  seat  of  elegant  hospitality 


24  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

and  literary  refinement.  The  house  was  now  silent  and  de 
serted.  I  saw  the  windows  of  the  study,  which  looked  out 
upon  the  soft  scenery  I  have  mentioned.  The  windows  were 
closed — the  library  was  gone.  Two  or  three  ill-favored  be 
ings  were  loitering  about  the  place,  whom  my  fancy  pic 
tured  into  retainers  of  the  law.  It  was  like  visiting  some 
classic  fountain  that  had  once  welled  its  pure  waters  in  a 
sacred  shade,  but  finding  it  dry  and  dusty,  with  the  lizard 
and  the  toad  brooding  over  the  shattered  marbles. 

T  inquired  after  the  fate  of  Mr.  Eoscoe's  library,  which 
had  consisted  of  scarce  and  foreign  books,  from  many  of 
which  he  had  drawn  the  materials  for  his  Italian  histories. 
It  had  passed  under  the  hammer  of  the  auctioneer,  and  was 
dispersed  about  the  country. 

The  good  people  of  the  vicinity  thronged  like  wreckers 
to  get  some  part  of  the  noble  vessel  that  had  been  driven 
on  shore.  Did  such  a  scene  admit  of  ludicrous  associa 
tions,  we  might  imagine  something  whimsical  in  this 
strange  irruption  into  the  regions  of  learning.  Pigmies 
rummaging  the  armory  of  a  giant,  and  contending  for  the 
possession  of  weapons  which  they  could  not  wield.  We 
might  picture  to  ourselves  some  knot  of  speculators,  debat 
ing  with  calculating  brow  over  the  quaint  binding  and 
illuminated  margin  of  an  obsolete  author;  or  the  air  of 
intense,  but  baffled  sagacity,  with  which  some  successful 
purchaser  attempted  to  dive  into  the  black-letter  bargain 
he  had  secured. 

It  is  a  beautiful  incident  in  the  story  of  Mr.  Roscoe's 
misfortunes,  and  one  which  cannot  fail  to  interest  the  stu 
dious  mind,  that  the  parting  with  his  books  seems  to  have 
touched  upon  his  tenderest  feelings,  and  to  have  been  the 
only  circumstance  that  could  provoke  the  notice  of  his 
muse.  The  scholar  only  knows  how  dear  these  silent,  yet 
eloquent,  companions  of  pure  thoughts  and  innocent  hours 
become  in  the  season  of  adversity.  When  all  that  is  worldly 
turns  to  dross  around  us,  these  only  retain  their  steady 
value.  When  friends  grow  cold,  and  the  converse  of  inti 
mates  languishes  into  vapid  civility  and  commonplace, 
these  only  continue  the  unaltered  countenance  of  happier 
days,  and  cheer  us  with  that  true  friendship  which  never 
deceived  hope,  nor  deserted  sorrow. 

I  do  not  wish  to  censure;  but,  surely,  if  the  people  of 


ROSCOE.  25 

jiverpool  had  been  properly  sensible  of  what  was  due  to 
dr.  Roscoe  and  to  themselves,  his  library  would  never  have 
»een  sold.  Good  worldly  reasons  may,  doubtless,  be  given 
or  the  circumstance,  which  it  would  be  difficult  to  combat 
pith  others  that  might  seem  merely  fanciful;  but  it  cer- 
ainly  appears  to  me  such  an  opportunity  as  seldom  occurs, 
i  cheering  a  noble  mind  struggling  under  misfortunes  by 
me  of  the  most  delicate,  but  most  expressive  tokens  of 
mblic  sympathy.  It  is  difficult,  however,  to  estimate  a 
nan  of  genius  properly  who  is  daily  before  our  eyes.  He 
>ecomes  mingled  and  confounded  with  other  men.  His 
jreat  qualities  lose  their  novelty,  and  we  become  too  famil- 
ar  with  the  common  materials  which  form  the  basis  even 
f  the  loftiest  character.  Some  of  Mr.  Roscoe's  townsmen 
nay  regard  him  merely  as  a  man  of  business;  others  as  a 
solitician;  all  find  him  engaged  like  themselves  in  ordi- 
lary  occupations,  and  surpassed,  perhaps,  by  themselves 
)n  some  points  of  worldly  wisdom.  Even  that  amiable 
md  unostentatious  simplicity  of  character,  which  gives 
;he  name  less  grace  to  real  excellence,  may  cause  him  to  be 
undervalued  by  some  coarse  minds,  who  do  not  know  that 
•,rue  worth  is  always  void  of  glare  and  pretension.  But  the 
man  of  letters  who  speaks  of  Liverpool,  speaks  of  it  as  the 
residence  of  Roscoe. — The  intelligent  traveller  who  visits  it, 
nquires  where  Roscoe  is  to  be  seen. — He  is  the  literary 
andmark  of  the  place,  indicating  its  existence  to  the  dis- 
;ant  scholar. — He  is  like  Pompey's  column  at  Alexandria, 
towering  alone  in  classic  dignity. 

The  following  sonnet,  addressed  by  Mr.  Roscoe  to  his 
books,  on  parting  with  them,  is  alluded  to  in  the  preceding 
article.  If  anything  can  add  effect  to  the  pure  feeling  and 
levated  thought  here  displayed,  it  is  the  conviction,  that 
;he  whole  is  no  effusion  of  fancy,  but  a  faithful  transcript 
from  the  writer's  heart: 


TO  MY  BOOKS. 

As  one,  who,  destined  from  his  friends  to  part, 
Regrets  his  loss,  but  hopes  again  erewhile 
To  share  their  converse,  and  enjoy  their  smile, 

And  tempers,  as  he  may,  affection's  dart; 


26  THE  SKETCHBOOK. 

Thus,  loved  associates,  chiefs  of  elder  art, 

Teachers  of  wisdom,  who  could  once  beguile 
My  tedious  hours,  and  lighten  every  toil, 

I  now  resign  you;  nor  with  fainting  heart; 


For  pass  a  few  short  years,  or  days,  or  hours, 
And  happier  seasons  may  their  dawn  unfold, 
And  all  your  sacred  fellowship  restore; 

When  freed  from  earth,  unlimited  its  powers, 

Mind  shall  with  mind  direct  communion  hold, 
And  kindred  spirits  meet  to  part  no  more. 


THE  WIFE.  37 


THE  WIFE'. 

The  treasures  of  the  deep  are  not  so  precious 
As  are  the  concealed  comforts  of  a  man 
Lock'd  up  in  woman's  love.     I  scent  the  air 
Of  blessings,  when  I  come  but  near  the  house, 
What  a  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth — 
The  violet  bed's  not  sweeter  I 

MlDDLETON. 

I  HAVE  often  had  occasion  to  remark  the  fortitude  with 
which  women  sustain  the  most  overwhelming  reverses  of 
fortune.  Those  disasters  which  break  down  the  spirit  of  a 
man,  and  prostrate  him  in  the  dust,  seem  to  call  forth  all 
the  energies  of  the  softer  sex,  and  give  such  intrepidity 
and  elevation  to  their  character,  that  at  times  it  approaches 
to  sublimity.  Nothing  can  be  more  touching,  than  to 
behold  a  soft  and  tender  female,  who  had  been  all  weak 
ness  and  dependence,  and  alive  to  every  trivial  roughness, 
while  threading  the  prosperous  paths  of  life,  suddenly 
rising  in  mental  force  to  be  the  comforter  and  supporter  of 
tier  husband  under  misfortune,  and  abiding,  with  un 
shrinking  firmness,  the  bitterest  blasts  of  adversity. 

As  the  vine,  which  has  long  twined  its  graceful  foliage 
about  the  oak,  and  been  lifted  by  it  into  sunshine,  will, 
when  the  hardy  plant  is  rifted  by  the  thunderbolt,  cling 
round  it  with  its  caressing  tendrils,  and  bind  up  its  shat- 
;ered  boughs ;  so  is  it  beautifully  ordered  by  Providence, 
;hat  woman,  who  is  the  mere  dependant  and  ornament  of 
man  in  his  happier  hours,  should  be  his  stay  and  solace 
when  smitten  with  sudden  calamity ;  winding  herself  into 
rugged  recesses  of  his  nature,  tenderly  supporting  the 
drooping  head,  and  binding  up  the  broken  heart. 

I  was  once  congratulating  a  friend,  who  had  around  him 
a  blooming  family,  knit  together  in  the  strongest  affection. 
"I  can  wish  you  no  better  lot,"  said  he,  with  enthusiasm, 
"than  to  have  a  wife  and  children.  If  you  are  prosperous, 
;here  they  are  to  share  your  prosperity ;  if  otherwise,  there 


28  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

they  are  to  comfort  you. "  And,  indeed,  I  have  observe 
that  a  married  man  falling  into  misfortune,  is  more  apt 
retrieve  his  situation  in  the  world  than  a  single  one ;  parti 
because  he  is  more  stimulated  to  exertion  by  the  necessiti 
of  the  helpless  and  beloved  beings  who  depend  upon  hi 
for  subsistence ;  but  chiefly,  because  his  spirits  are  sootlu 
and  relieved  by  domestic  endearments,  and  his  self-respe< 
kept  alive  by  finding,  that  though  all  abroad  is  darkne 
and  humiliation,  yet  there  is  still  a  little  world  of  love  j 
home,  of  which  he  is  the  monarch.  Whereas,  a  sing 
man  is  apt  to  run  to  waste  and  self-neglect ;  to  fancy  hin 
self  lonely  and  abandoned,  and  his  heart  to  fall  to  ruir 
like  some  deserted  mansion,  for  want  of  an  inhabitant. 

These  observations  call  to  mind  a  little  domestic  storj 
of  which  I  was  once  a  witness.     My  intimate  friend,  Leslit  It 
had  married  a  beautiful  and  accomplished  girl,  who  ha  I 
been  brought  up  in  the  midst  of  fashionable  life.    She  had! 
it  is  true,  no  fortune,  but  that  of  my  friend  was  ample 
and  he  delighted  in  the  anticipation  of  indulging  her  in 
every  elegant  pursuit,  and  administering  to  those  delicat 
tastes  and  fancies  that  spread  a  kind  of  witchery  about  th' 
sex. — "Her  life,"  said  he,  "shall  be  like  a  fairy  tale." 

The  very  difference  in  their  characters  produced  a  har 
monious  combination ;  he  was  of  a  romantic,  and  somewha1 
serious  cast ;  she  was  all  life  and  gladness.  I  have  of terfc 
noticed  the  mute  rapture  with  which  he  would  gaze  upor  ID 
her  in  company,  of  which  her  sprightly  powers  made  hell 
the  delight ;  and  how,  in  the  midst  of  applause,  her  eyeei 
would  still  turn  to  him,  as  if  there  alone  she  sought  favoil 
and  acceptance.  When  leaning  on  his  arm,  her  slenden 
form  contrasted  finely  with  his  tall,  manly  person.  Thqi 
fond  confiding  air  with  which  she  looked  up  to  him  seemed 
to  call  forth  a  flush  of  triumphant  pride  and  cherishing 
tenderness,  as  if  he  doated  on  his  lovely  burden  for  itd 
very  helplessness.  Never  did  a  couple  set  forward  on  tha 
flowery  path  of  early  and  well-suited  marriage  with  a  fairer! 
prospect  of  felicity. 

It  was  the  misfortune  of  my  friend,  however,  to  have 
embarked  his  property  in  large  speculations;  and  he  had] 
not  been  married  many  months,  Avhen,  by  a  succession  ofl 
sudden  disasters  it  was  swept  from  him,  and  he  found  him-j 
self  reduced  to  almost  penury.     For  a  time  he  kept  hisl 


• 


THE  WIFE.  29 

ituation  to  himself,  and  went  about  with  a  haggard  coun- 
enance,  and  a  breaking  heart.  His  life  was  but  a  pro- 
racted  agony;  and  what  rendered  it  more  insupportable 
pas  the  necessity  of  keeping  up  a  smile  in  the  presence  of 
is  wife;  for  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  overwhelm  her 
nth  the  news.  She  saw,  however,  with  the  quick  eyes  of 
ffection,  that  all  was  not  well  with  him.  She  marked  his 
Itercd  look  and  stifled  sighs,  and  was  not  to  be  deceived 
iy  his  sickly  and  vapid  attempts  at  cheerfulness.  She 
asked  all  her  sprightly  powers  and  tender  blandishments 
o  win  him  back  to  happiness;  but  she  only  drove  the 
rrow  deeper  into  his  soul.  The  more  he  saw  cause  to  love 
ler,  the  more  torturing  was  the  thought  that  he  was  soon 
o  make  her  wretched.  A  little  while,  thought  he,  and 
he  smile  will  vanish  from  that  cheek — the  song  will  die 
way  from  those  lips — the  lustre  of  those  eyes  will  be 
uenched  with  sorrow — and  the  happy  heart  which  now 
•eats  lightly  in  that  bosom,  will  be  weighed  down,  like 
nine,  by  the  cares  and  miseries  of  the  world. 

At  length  he  came  to  me  one  day,  and  related  his  whole 
ituation  in  a  tone  of  the  deepest  despair.  When  I  had 
leard  him  through,  I  inquired,  "  Does  your  wife  know  all 
his?"  At  the  question  he  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears. 
' For  God's  sake!"  cried  he,  " if  you  have  any  pity  on  me, 
on't  mention  my  wife;  it  is  the  thought  of  her  that  drives 
ne  almost  to  madness!" 

"  And  why  not?"  said  I.  "  She  must  know  it  sooner  or 
ater:  you  cannot  keep  it  long  from  her,  and  the  intelli 
gence  may  break  upon  her  in  a  more  startling  manner  than 
f  imparted  by  yourself;  for  the  accents  of  those  we  love 
often  the  harshest  tidings.  Besides,  you  are  depriving 
ourself  of  the  comforts  of  her  sympathy;  and  not  merely 
hat,  but  also  endangering  the  only  bond  that  can  keep 
learts  together — an  unreserved  community  of  thought  and 
eeling.  She  will  soon  perceive  that  something  is  secretly 
>reying  upon  your  mind;  and  true  love  will  not  brook  re- 
erve:  it  feels  undervalued  and  outraged,  when  even  the 
orrows  of  those  it  loves  are  concealed  from  it." 

"  Oh,  but  my  friend!  to  think  what  a  blow  I  am  to  give 
o  all  her  future  prospects — how  I  am  to  strike  her  very 
oul  to  the  earth,  by  telling  her  that  her  husband  is  a  beg- 
jar! — that  she  is  to  forego  all  the  elegancies  of  life — all  the 


30  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

pleasures  of  society — to  shrink  with  me  into  indigence  a' 
obscurity!  To  tell  her  that  I  have  dragged  her  down  frc 
the  sphere  in  which  she  might  have  continued  to  move 
constant  brightness — the  light  of  every  eye — the  admii 
tion  of  every  heart! — How  can  she  bear  poverty?  She  h 
been  brought  up  in  all  the  refinements  of  opulence.  H( 
can  she  bear  neglect?  She  has  been  the  idol  of  societ 
Oh,  it  will  break  her  heart — it  will  break  her  heart!" 

I  saw  his  grief  was  eloquent,  and  I  let  it  have  its  flo 
for  sorrow  relieves  itself  by  words.  When  his  paroxys 
had  subsided,  and  he  had  relapsed  into  moody  silence, 
resumed  the  subject  gently,  and  urged  him  to  break  \. 
situation  at  once  to  his  wife.  He  shook  his  head  mour: 
fully,  but  positively. 

"  But  how  are  you  to  keep  it  from  her?    It  is  necessa 
she  should  know  it,  that  you  may  take  the  steps  proper 
the  alteration  of  your  circumstances.     You  must  chanj 
your  style  of  living — nay,"  observing  a  pang  to  pass  acro> 
his  countenance,  "don't  let  that  afflict  you.     I  am  su 
you  have  never  placed  your  happiness  in  outward  show- 
you  have  yet  friends,  warm  friends,  who  will  not  think  tl' 
worse  of  you  for  being  less  splendidly  lodged:  and  sure 
it  does  not  require  a  palace  to  be  happy  with  Mary — ' 
could  be  happy  with  her,"  cried  he,  convulsively,  "  in 
hovel ! — I  could  go  down  with  her  into  poverty  and  tb 
dust — I  could — I  could — God  bless  her! — God  bless  her!! 
cried  he,  bursting  into  a  transport  of  grief  and  tendernes 

"  And  believe  me,  my  friend,"  said  I,  stepping  up,  ai 
grasping  him  warmly  by  the  hand,  "  believe  me,  she 
be  the  same  to  you.     Ay,  more  :  it  will  be  a  source  of  prk 
and  triumph  to  her — it  will  call  forth  all  the  latent  enei 
gies  and  fervent  sympathies  of  her  nature ;  for  she  will 
joice  to  prove  that  she  loves  you  for  yourself.     There  is 
every  true  woman's  heart  a  spark  of  heavenly  fire,  whic 
lies  dormant  in  the  broad  daylight  of  prosperity;  bi 
which  kindles  up,  and  beams  and  blazes  in  the  dark  hoi 
of  adversity.     No  man  knows  what  the  wife  of  his  bosor 
is — no  man  knows  what  a  ministering  angel  she  is — mi 
he  has  gone  with  her  through  the  fiery  trials  of  this  world. \ 

There  was  something  in  the  earnestness  of  my  manne| 
and  the  figurative  style  of  my  language,  that  caught  tl 
excited  imagination  of  Leslie.  I  knew  the  auditor  I 


I 


:.. 


THE  WIFE.  31 

•  deal  with  ;  and  following  up  the  impression  I  had  made, 
finished  by  persuading  him  to  go  home  and  unburden  his 
id  heart  to  his  wife. 

I  must  confess,  notwithstanding  all  I  had  said,  I  felt 

me  little  solicitude  for  the  result.  Who  can  calculate  on 
ic  fortitude  of  one  whose  whole  life  has  been  a  round  of 
leasures  ?  Her  gay  spirits  might  revolt  at  the  dark, 
own  ward  path  of  low  humility,  suddenly  pointed  out  be- 
j  her,  and  might  cling  to  the  sunny  regions  in  which 
icy  had  hitherto  revelled.  Besides,  ruin  in  fashionable 
fe  is  accompanied  by  so  many  galling  mortifications,  to 
rhich,  in  other  ranks,  it  is  a  stranger. — In  short,  I  could 
ot  meet  Leslie,  the  next  morning,  without  trepidation. 
le  had  made  the  disclosure. 

"And  how  did  she  bear  it  ?" 

"Like  an  angel !  It  seemed  rather  to  be  a  relief  to  her 
liud,  for  she  threw  her  arms  round  my  neck,  and  asked  if 
lis  was  all  that  had  lately  made  me  unhappy. — But,  poor 
irl,"  added  he,  "she  cannot  realize  the  change  we  must 
ndergo.  She  has  no  idea  of  poverty  but  in  the  abstract : 
tie  has  only  read  of  it  in  poetry,  where  it  is  allied  to  love, 
he  feels  as  yet  no  privation  :  she  suffers  no  loss  of  accus- 
omed  conveniences  nor  elegancies.  When  we  come  prac- 
"cally  to  experience  its  sordid  cares,  its  paltry  wants,  its 
etty  humiliations — then  will  be  the  real  trial." 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  now  that  you  have  got  over  the  severest 
ask,  that  of  breaking  it  to  her,  the  sooner  you  let  the 
orld  into  the  secret  the  better.  The  disclosure  may  be 
lortifying ;  but  then  it  is  a  single  misery,  and  soon  over ; 
rhereas  you  otherwise  suffer  it,  in  anticipation,  every  hour 

the  day.  It  is  not  poverty,  so  much  as  pretence,  that 
arasses  a  ruined  man — the  struggle  between  a  proud  mind 
nd  an  empty  purse — the  keeping  up  a  hollow  show  that 
lust  soon  come  to  an  end.  Have  the  courage  to  appear 
oor,  and  you  disarm  poverty  of  its  sharpest  sting."  On 
lis  point  I  found  Leslie  perfectly  prepared.  He  had  no 
alse  pride  himself,  and  as  to  his  wife,  she  was  only 
nxious  to  conform  to  their  altered  fortunes. 

Some  days  afterwards,  he  called  upon  me  in  the  evening. 
le  had  disposed  of  his  dwelling-house,  and  taken  a  small 
ottage  in  the  country,  a  few  miles  from  town.  He  had 
een  busied  all  day  in  sending  out  furniture.  The  new 


32  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

establishment  required  few  articles,  and  those  of  th< 
simplest  kind.  All  the  splendid  furniture  of  his  late  resi 
dence  had  been  sold,  excepting  his  wife's  harp.  That,  h< 
said,  was  too  closely  associated  with  the  idea  of  herself ;  i 
belonged  to  the  little  story  of  their  loves ;  for  some  of  th< 
sweetest  moments  of  their  courtship  were  those  when  hi 
leaned  over  that  instrument,  and  listened  to  the  melting 
tones  of  her  voice.  I  could  not  but  smile  at  this  iustano 
of  romantic  gallantry  in  a  doating  husband. 

He  was  now  going  out  to  the  cottage,  where  his  wife  ha< 
been  all  day,  superintending  its  arrangement.  My  feeling 
had  become  strongly  interested  in  the  progress  of  hi 
family  story,  and  as  it  was  a  fine  evening,  I  offered  to  ac 
company  him. 

He  was  wearied  with  the  fatigues  of  the  day,  and  as  w 
walked  out,  fell  into  a  fit  of  gloomy  musing. 

"Poor  Mary!"  at  length  broke,  with  a  sigh,  fromhis  lips 

"And  what  of  her,"  asked  I,  "has  anything  happene< 
to  her?" 

"What,"  said  he,  darting  an  impatient  glance,  "is 
nothing  to  be  reduced  to  this  paltry  situation — to  be  caged 
in  a  miserable  cottage — to  be  obliged  to  toil  almost  in  th0 
menial  concerns  of  her  wretched  habitation?" 

"Has  she  then  repined  at  the  change?" 

"Eepined!  she  has  been  nothing  but  sweetness  and  good 
humor.     Indeed,  she  seems  in  better  spirits  than  I  hav 
ever  known  her;  she  has  been  to  me  all  love,  and  tender 
ness,  and  comfort!" 

"Admirable  girl!"  exclaimed  I.  "You  call  yourse! 
poor,  my  friend;  you  never  were  so  rich — you  never  k 
the  boundless  treasures  of  excellence  you  possessed  in  tha 
woman." 

"Oh!  but  my  friend,  if  this  first  meeting  at  the  cottagj 
were  over,  I  think  I  could  then  be  comfortable.  But  thii 
is  her  first  day  of  real  experience:  she  has  been  introduced 
into  an  humble  dwelling — she  has  been  employed  all  da; 
in  arranging  its  miserable  equipments — she  has  for  th( 
first  time  known  the  fatigues  of  domestic  employment- 
she  has  for  the  first  time  looked  around  her  on  a  home 
destitute  of  everything  elegant — almost  of  everything  con* 
venient;  and  may  now  be  sitting  down,  exhausted  anc 
spiritless,  brooding  over  a  prospect  of  future  poverty/' 


THE  WIPE.  33 

There  was  a  degree  of  probability  in  this  picture  that  I 
could  not  gainsay,  so  we  walked  on  in  silence. 

After  turning  from  the  main  road,  up  a  narrow  lane,  so 
hickly  shaded  by  forest  trees  as  to  give  it  a  complete  air  of 
eclusion,  we  came  in  sight  of  the  cottage.  It  was  humble 
snough  in  its  appearance  for  the  most  pastoral  poet;  and 
ret  it  had  a  pleasing  rural  look.  A  wild  vine  had  overrun 
me  end  with  a  profusion  of  foliage;  a  few  trees  threw  their 
>ranches  gracefully  over  it;  and  I  observed  several  pots  of 
lowers  tastefully  disposed  about  the  door,  and  on  the 
jrass-plot  in  front.  A  small  wicket-gate  opened  upon  a 
botpath  that  wound  through  some  shrubbery  to  the  door, 
[ust  as  we  approached,  we  heard  the  sound  of  music — Leslie 
rasped  my  arm;  we  paused  and  listened.  It  was  Mary's 
foice,  singing,  in  a  style  of  the  most  touching  simplicity, 
a  little  air  of  which  her  husband  was  peculiarly  fond. 

I  felt  Leslie's  hand  tremble  on  my  arm.  He  stepped  for 
ward,  to  hear  more  distinctly.  His  step  made  a  noise  on 
he  gravel-walk.  A  bright,  beautiful  face  glanced  out  at 
ihe  window,  aud  vanished — a  light  footstep  was  heard — 
and  Mary  came  tripping  forth  to  meet  us.  She  was  in  a 
pretty  rural  dress  of  white;  a  few  wild  flowers  were  twisted 
n  her  fine  hair;  a  fresh  bloom  was  on  her  cheek;  her  whole 
sountenance  beamed  with  smiles — I  had  never  seen  her 
ook  so  lovely. 

" My  dear  George,"  cried  she,  "I  am  so  glad  you  are 
some;  I  have  been  watching  and  watching  for  you;  and 
running  down  the  lane,  and  looking  out  for  you.  I've  set 
mt  a  table  under  a  beautiful  tree  behind  the  cottage;  and 
I've  been  gathering  some  of  the  most  delicious  strawberries, 
"or  I  know  you  are  fond  of  them — and  we  have  such  ex- 
icllent  cream — and  everything  is  so  sweet  and  still  here. — 
Oh!" — said  she.  putting  her  arm  within  his,  and  looking 
ip  brightly  in  his  face,  "Oh,  we  shall  be  so  happy!" 

Poor  Leslie  was  overcome. — He  caught  her  to  his  bosom 
—he  folded  his  arms  around  her — he  kissed  her  again  and 
igain — he  could  not  speak,  but  the  tears  gushed  into  his 
jyes;  and  he  has  often  assured  me,  that  though  the  world 
ms  since  gone  prosperously  with  him,  and  his  life  has  in- 
leed  been  a  happy  one,  yet  never  has  he  experienced  a 
nomen-t  of  more  exquisite  felicity. 


34    .  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

' 

[The  following  Tale  was  found  among  the  papers  of  the 
late  Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  an  old  gentleman  of  New- 
York,  who  was  very  curious  in  the  Dutch  History  of  the 
province  and   the  manners  of  the  descendants  from  its 
primitive  settlers.     His  historical  researches,  however,  did: 
not  lie  so  much  among  books   as  among  men ;   for   the 
former  are    lamentably    scanty    on   his    favorite    topics ;] 
whereas  he  found  tbe  old  burghers,  and  still  more,  their; 
wives,  rich  in  that  legendary  lore,  so  invaluable  to  true! 
history.       Whenever,    therefore,    he     happened     upon    a' 
genuine  Dutch  family,  snugly  shut  up  in  its  low-roofed' 
farm-house,  under  a  spreading  scyamore,  he  looked  upon; 
it  as  a  little  clasped  volume  of  black-letter,  and  studied  it| 
with  the  zeal  of  a  bookworm. 

The  result  of  all  these  researches  was  a  history  of  the' 
province,  during  the  reign  of  the  Dutch  governors,  which! 
he  published  some  years  since.  Thsre  have  been  various; 
opinions  as  to  the  literary  character  of  his  work,  and,  to? 
tell  the  truth,  it  is  not  a  whit  better  than  it  should  be.  Its' 
chief  merit  is  its  scrupulous  accuracy,  which,  indeed,  was  a] 
little  questioned,  on  its  first  appearance,  but  has  since  been] 
completely  established  ;  and  it  is  now  admitted  into  all  his-} 
torical  collections,  as  a  book  of  unquestionable  authority.- 
The  old  gentleman  died  shortly  after  the  publication  of! 
his  work,  and  now,  that  he  is  dead  and  gone,  it  cannot  cldl 
much  harm  to  his  memory,  to  say,  that  his  time  mights 
have  been  much  better  employed  in  weightier  labors.  HeJ 
however,  was  apt  to  ride  his  hobby  his  own  way ;  ancS 
though  it  did  now  and  then  kick  up  the  dust  a  little  in  the! 
eyes  of  his  neighbors,  and  grieve  the  spirit  of  some  friends] 
for  whom  he  felt  the  truest  deference  and  affection,  yet  hisl 
errors  and  follies  are  remembered  "more  in  sorrow  than  in; 
anger/'*  and  it  begins  to  be  suspected,  that  he  never  in* 
tended  to  injure  or  offend.  But  however  his  memory  maw 
be  appreciated  by  critics,  it  is  still  held  dear  among  maw 
folk,  whose  good  opinion  is  well  worth  having;  particuT 
larly  by  certain  biscuit-bakers,  who  have  gone  so  far  MS  to 
imprint  his  likeness  on  their  new-year  cakes,  and  have  thuf 
given  him  a  chance  for  immortality,  almost  equal  to  thi 
being  stamped  on  a  Waterloo  medal,  or  a  Queen  Anne'i 
farthing.] 

*  Vide  the  excellent  discourse  of  G.  C.  Verplanck,  Esq.,  before  tlie  iN'ew  Yc 
Historical  Society. 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE.  35 


RIP  VAN   WINKLE. 

A    POSTHUMOUS  WRITING    OF    DIEDKICH    KNICKERBOCKER, 

By  Woden,  God  of  Saxons, 

From  whence  comes  Wensday,  that  is  Wodensday 

Truth  is  a  thing  that  ever  I  will  keep 

Unto  thy  Ike  day  in  whicli  I  creep  into 

My  sepulchre — 

CARTKIGHT. 

WHOEVER,  has  made  a  voyage  up  the   Hudson,  mfist 
I  remember  the  Kuatskill  mountains.     They  are  a  dismem 
bered  branch  of  the  great  Appalachian  family,  and  are 
seen  away  to  the  west  of  the  river,  swelling  up  to  a  noble 
height,    and    lording   it   over   the    surrounding    country. 
Every  change  of  season,  every  change  of  weather,  indeed 
[every  hour  of  the  day  produces  some  change  in  the  magical 
Ihues  and  shapes  of  these  mountains ;  and  they  are  regarded 
Iby  all  the  good  wives,  far  and  near,  as  perfect  barometers. 
iWhen  the  weather  is  fair  and  settled,  they  are  clothed  in 
jblue  and  purple,  and  print  their  bold  outlines  on  the  clear 
3vening  sky ;  but  sometimes,  when  the  rest  of  the  land 
scape  is  cloudless,  they  will  gather  a  hood  of  gray  vapors 
ibout  their  summits,  which,  in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting 
3un,  will  glow  and  light  up  like  a  crown  of  glory. 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy  mountains,  the  voyager  may 
lave  descried  the  light  smoke  curling  up  from  a  village, 
[whose  shingle  roofs  gleam  among  the  trees,  just  where  the 
)lue  tints  of  the  upland  melt  away  into  the  fresh  green  of 
the  nearer  landscape.  It  is  a  little  village  of  great  an- 
fiiquity,  having  been  founded  by  some  of  the  Dutch 
jolonists,  in  the  early  times  of  the  province,  just  about 
[;he  beginning  of  the  government  of  the  good  Peter  Stuy- 
?esant  (may  he  rest  in  peace !)  and  there  were  some  of  the 
louses  of  the  original  settlers  standing  within  a  few  years, 
milt  of  small  yellow  bricks,  brought  from  Holland,  having 
latticed  windows  and  gable  fronts,  surmounted  witij 
weathercocks. 


36  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

In  that  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these  very  houses 
(which  to  tell  the  precise  truth,  was  sadly  time-worn  and 
weather-beaten),  there  lived  many  years  since,  while  the 
country  was  yet  a  province  of  Great  Britain,  a  simple, 
good-natured  fellow,  of  the  name  of  Rip  Van  Winkle.  He 
was  a  descendant  of  the  Van  Winkles  who  figured  so  gal 
lantly  in  the  chivalrous  days  of  Peter  Stuyvesant,  and 
accompanied  him  to  the  siege  of  fort  Christina.  He  in 
herited,  however,  but  little  of  the  martial  character  of  his 
ancestors.  I  have  observed  that  he  was  a  simple  good- 
natured  man ;  he  was  moreover  a  kind  neighbor,  and  an 
obedient  henpecked  husband.  Indeed,  to  the  latter  cir 
cumstance  might  be  owing  that  meekness  of  spirit  which 
gained  him  such  universal  popularity ;  for  those  men  are 
most  apt  to  be  obsequious  and  conciliating  abroad,  who  are 
under  the  discipline  of  shrews  at  home.  Their  tempers, 
doubtless,  are  rendered  pliant  and  malleable  in  the  fiery 
furnace  of  domestic  tribulation,  and  a  curtain  lecture  is 
worth  all  the  sermons  in  the  world  for  teaching  the  virtues 
of  patience  and  long-suffering.  A  termagant  wife  may, 
therefore,  in  some  respects,  be  considered  a  tolerable 
blessing ;  and  if  so,  Eip  Van  Winkle  was  thrice  blessed. 

Certain  it  is,  that  he  was  a  great  favorite  among  all  the 
good  wives  of  the  village,  who,  as  usual  with  the  amiable 
sex,  took  his  part  in  all  family  squabbles,  and  never  failed, 
whenever  they  talked  those  matters  over  in  their  evening 

fossipings,  to  lay  all  the  blame  on  Dame  Van  Winkle, 
'he  children  of  the  village,  too,  would  shout  with  joy 
whenever  he  approached.     He  assisted  at   their  sports,; 
made  their  playthings,  taught  them  to  fly  kites  and  shoot] 
marbles,  and  told  them  long  stories  of  ghosts,  witches  and; 
Indians.     Whenever  he  went  dodging  about  the  village,  he] 
was  surrounded  by  a  troop  oi  them  hanging  on  his  skirts, 
clambering  on  his  back,  and  playing  a  thousand  tricks  on,i 
him  with  impunity;   and  not  a  dog  would  bark  at  himf 
throughout  the  neighborhood. 

The  great  error  in  Rip's  composition  was  an  insuperable  | 
aversion  to  all  kinds  of  profitable  labor.     It  could  not  bej 
from  the  want  of  assiduity  or  perseverance;  for  he  woulc" 
sit  on  a  wet  rock,  with  a  rod  as  long  and  heavy  as 
Tartar's  lance,  and  fish  all  day  without  a  murmur,  ever 
though  he  should  not  be  encouraged  by  a  sii.*;le  nibble./ 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE.  37 

'.Q  would  carry  a  fowling-piece  on  his  shoulder,  for  hours 

gether,  trudging  through  woods  and  swamps,  and  up  hill 

nd  down  dale,  to  shoot  a  few  squirrels  or  wild  pigeons. 

e  would  never  refuse  to  assist  a  neighbor  even  in  the 

oughest  toil,  and  was  a  foremost  man  at  all  country  frolics 

or  husking  Indian  corn,  or  building  stone  fences.     The 

omen  of  the  village,  too,  used  to  employ  him  to  run  their 

"rands,  and  to  do  such  little  odd  jobs  as  their  less  obliging 

usbands  would  not  do  for  them ; — in  a  word,  Rip  was 

ady  to  attend  to  anybody's  business  but  his  own ;  but  as 

*  doing  family  duty,  and  keeping  his  farm  in  order,  he 

ound  it  impossible. 

In  fact,  he  declared  it  was  of  no  use  to  work  on  his  farm ; 

was  the  most  pestilent  little  piece  of  ground  in  the  whole 
ountry ;  everything  about  it  went  wrong,  and  would  go 
rong  in  spite  of  him.  His  fences  were  continually  falling 
)  pieces;  his  cow  would  either  go  astray,  or  get  among 
he  cabbages  ;  weeds  were  sure  to  grow  quicker  in  his  fields 
lan  anywhere  else ;  the  rain  always  made  a  point  of  setting 
just  as  he  had  some  out-door  work  to  do ;  so  that 
lough  his  patrimonial  estate  had  dwindled  away  under 
is  management,  acre  by  acre,  until  there  was  little  more 
;ft  than  a  mere  patch  of  Indian  corn  and  potatoes,  yet  it 
as  the  worst  conditioned  farm  in  the  neighborhood. 

His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild  as  if  they  be- 
mged  to  nobody.  His  son  Rip,  an  urchin  begotten  in  his 
wn  likeness,  promised  to  inherit  the  habits,  with  the  old 
lothes  of  his  father.  He  was  generally  seen  trooping  like 

colt  at  his  mother's  heels,  equipped  in  a  pair  of  his 
ather's  cast-off  galligaskins,  which  he  had  much  ado  to 
old  up  with  one  hand,  as  a  fine  lady  does  her  train  in  bad 
eather. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those  happy  mor 
als,  of  foolish,  well-oiled  dispositions,  who  take  the  world 
asy,  eat  white  bread  or  brown,  whichever  can  be  got  with 
ast  thought  or  trouble,  and  would  rather  starve  on  a 
enny  than  work  for  a  pound.  If  left  to  himself,  he  would 
ave  whistled  life  away,  in  perfect  contentment ;  but  his 
ife  kept  continually  dinning  in  his  ears  about  his  idleness, 
is  carelessness,  and  the  ruin  he  was  bringing  on  his 
amily. 

Morning,  noon,  and  night,  her  tongue  was  incessantly 


38  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

going,  and  everything  he  said  or  did  was  snre  to  produce  ai 
torrent  of  household  eloquence.     Eip  had  but  one  way  o: 
replying  to  all  lectures  of  the  kind,  and  that,  by  frequenl 
use,  had  grown  into  a  habit.     He  shrugged  his  shoulders,' 
shook  his  head,  cast  up  his  eyes,  but  said  nothing.     This 
however,  always  provoked  a  fresh  volley  from  his  wife, 
tnat  he  was  fain  to  draw  off  his  forces,  and  take  to  the  ou 
side  of  the  house — the  only  side  which,  in  truth,  belon 
to  a  henpecked  husband. 

Eip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog  Wolf,  who  w 
as  much  henpecked  as  his  master ;  for  Dame  Van  Winkl 
regarded  them  as  companions  in  idleness,  and  even  looke' 
upon  Wolf  with  an  evil  eye,  as  the  cause  of  his  master*! 
going  so  often  astray.     True  it  is,  in  all  points  of  spiii 
befitting  an    honorable  dog,  he    was    as    courageous  a: 
•animal  as  ever  scoured  the  woods — but  what  courage  ca: 
withstand  the  ever-during  and  all  besetting  terrors  of 
woman's  iongue?     The  moment  Wolf  entered  the  hougej 
his  crest  fell,  his  tail  drooped  to  the  ground,  or  curled  b 
tween  his  legs,  he  sneaked  about  with  a  gallows  air,  castin 
many  a  sidelong  glance  at  Dame  Van  Winkle,  and  at  th 
least  flourish  of  a  broomstick  or  ladle,  he  would  fly  to  t 
door  with  yelping  precipitation. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Eip  Van  Winkle, 
years  of  matrimony  rolled  on :  a  tart  temper  never  mellowi 
with  age,  and  a  sharp  tongue  is  the  only  edge  tool  thai 
grows  keener  with  constant  use.     For  a  long  while  he  use<| 
to  console  himself,  when  driven  from  home,  by  f requentin, 
a  kind  of  perpetual  club  of  the  sages,  philosophers,  an 
other  idle  personages  of  the  village,  which  held  its  sessio 
on  a  bench  before  a  small  inn,  designated  by  a  rubicun 
portrait  of  his  majesty  George  the  Third.     Here  they  u& 
to  sit  iu  the  shade  of  a  long  lazy  summer's  day,  talking  lis 
lessly  over  village  gossip,  or  telling  endless  sleepy  stori 
about  nothing.     But  it  would  have  been  worth  any  state 
man's  money  to  have  heard  the  profound  discussions  whi 
sometimes  took  place,  when  by  chance  an  old  newspap' 
fell  into  their  hands,  from  some  passing  traveller.     Ho 
solemnly  they  would  listen  to  the  contents,  as  drawled  o 
by  Derrick  Van   Bummel,    the    schoolmaster,   a    dapp 
learned  little  man,  who  was  not  to  be  daunted  by  the  mo 
gigantic  word  in  the  dictionary;  and   how  sagely  th 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE.  39 

deliberate  upon  public  events  some  months  after 

tie}'  had  taken  place. 
The  opinions  of  this  junto  were  completely  controlled  by 
_  "icliQlas  Vedder,  a  patriarch  of  the  village,  and  landlord 
f  the  inn,  at  the  door  of  which  he  took   his  seat  from 
norning  till  night,  just  moving  sufficiently  to  avoid  the 
un,  and  keep  in  the  shade  of  a  large  tree;  so  that  the 
leighbors  could  tell  the  hour  by  his  movements  as  accur- 
,tely  as  by  a  sun-dial.     It  is  true,  he  was  rarely  heard  to 
peak,  but  smoked  his  pipe  incessantly.     His  adherents, 

(owever  (for  every  great  man  has  his  adherents),  perfectly 
nderstood  him,  and  knew  how  to  gather  his  opinions. 
_Vhen  anything  that  was  read  or  related  displeased  him,  he 
observed  to  smoke  his  pipe  vehemently,  and  to  send 
orth  short,  frequent,  and  angry  puffs;  but  when  pleased, 
would  inhale  the  smoke  slowly  and  tranquilly,  and  emit 
t  in  light  and  placid  clouds,  and  sometimes  taking  the 
)ipe  from  his  mouth,  and  letting  the  fragrant  vapor  curl 
,bout  his  nose,  would  gravely  nod  his  head  in  token  of  pt5r- 

tict  approbation. 
From  even  this  stronghold  the    unlucky   Rip  was  at 
_  ngth  routed  by  his  termagant  wife,  who  would  suddenly 
reak  in  upon  the  tranquillity  of  the  assemblage,  and  call 
he  members  all  to  nought;  nor  was  that  august  personage, 
Nicholas  Vedder  himself,  sacred  from  the  daring  tongue  of 
his  terrible  virago,  who  charged  him  outright  with  eucour- 
ging  her  husband  in  habits  of  idleness. 

Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair,  and  his 
nly  alternative  to  escape  from  the  labor  of  the  farm  and 
he  clamor  of  his  wife,  was  to  take  gun  in  hand,  and  stroll 
way  into  the  woods.  Here  he  would  sometimes  seat  him- 

If  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  and  share  the  contents  of  his 
allet  with  Wolf,  with  whom  he  sympathized  as  a  fellow- 
ufferer  in  persecution.  "  Poor  Wolf,"  he  would  say, 

thy  mistress  leads  thee  a  dog's  life  of  it;  but  never  mind, 
tiy  lad,  whilst  I  live  thou  shalt  never  want  a  friend  to 
tand  by  thee!"  Wolf  would  wag  his  tail,  look  wistfully  in 
is  master's  face,  and  if  dogs  can  feel  pity,  I  verily  believe 
e  reciprocated  the  sentiment  with  all  his  heart. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind,  on  a  fine  autumnal  day, 
iip  had  unconsciously  scrambled  to  one  of  the  highest 
arts  of  the  Kaatskill  mountains.  He  was  after  his  favor- 


40  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

ite  sport  of  squirrel-shooting,  and  the  still  solitudes  hac 
echoed  and  re-echoed  with  the  reports  of  his  gun.     Pant 
ing  and  fatigued,  he  threw  himself,  late  in  the  afternoon^ 
on  a  green  knoll  covered   with  mountain  herbage,   thai 
crowned  the  brow  of  a  precipice.     From  an  opening 
tween  the  trees,  he  could  overlook  all  the  lower  countrj 
for  many  a  mile  of  rich  woodland.     He  saw  at  a  distance 
the  lordly  Hudson,  far,  far  below  him,  moving  on  its  silen 
but  majestic  course,  with  the  reflection  of  a  purple  cloud,' 
or  the  sail  of  a  lagging  bark,  here  and  there  sleeping  on  it 
glassy  bosom,  and  at  last  losing  itself  in  the  blue  highlands 

On  the  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a  deep  mountain 
glen,  wild,  lonely,  and  shagged,  the   bottom   filled  wit! 
fragments  from  the  impending  cliffs,  and  scarcely  lighte 
by  the  reflected  rays  of  the  setting  sun.     For  some  time 
Rip  lay  musing  on  this  scene;  evening  was  gradually 
vancing;  the  mountains  began  to  throw  their  long  I 
shadows  over  the  valleys;  he  saw  that  it  would  be  dart 
long  before  he  could  reach  the  village;  and  he  heaved 
heavy  sigh  when  he  thought  of  encountering  the  terrors  o\ 
Dame  Van  Winkle. 

As  he  was  about  to  descend  he  heard  a  voice  from  a  dis 
tance  hallooing,  "Rip  Van  Winkle!  Rip  Van  Winkle!1 
He  looked  around,  but  could  see  nothing  but  a  crow  wiii£ 
ing  its  solitary  flight  across  the  mountain.  He  thought 
his  fancy  must  have  deceived  him,  and  turned  again  to  del 
scend,  when  he  heard  the  same  cry  ring  through  the  still| 
evening  air,  "  Rip  Van  Winkle!  Rip  Van  Winkle!" — at  the 
same  time  Wolf  bristled  up  his  back,  and  giving  a  loi 
growl,  skulked  to  his  master's  side,  looking  fearfully  down 
into  the  glen.  Rip  now  felt  a  vague  apprehension  stealing 
over  him;  he  looked  anxiously  in  the  same  direction,  anc 
perceived  a  strange  figure  slowly  toiling  up  the  rocks,  anc 
bending  under  the  weight  of  something  he  carried  on  hia 
back.  He  was  surprised  to  see  any  human  being  in  thij 
lonely  and  unfrequented  place,  but  supposing  it  to  be  sor 
one  of  the  neighborhood  in  need  of  his  assistance,  h<! 
hastened  down  to  yield  it. 

On  nearer  approach,  he  was  still  more  surprised  at  the 
singularity  of  the  stranger's  appearance.  He  was  a  shor 
square-built  old  fellow,  with  thick  bushy  hair,  and  a  griz 
zled  beard.  His  dress  was  of  the  antique  Dutch  fashion- 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE.  41 

cloth  jerkin  strapped  round  the  waist — several  pair  of 
Breeches,  the  outer  one  of  ample  volume,  decorated  with 
•ows  of  buttons  down  the  sides,  and  bunches  at  the  knees. 
He  bore  on  his  shoulders  a  stout  keg,  that  seemed  full  of 
iquor,  and  made  signs  for  Eip  to  approach  and  assist  him 
with  the  load.  Though  rather  shy  and  distrustful  of  this 
new  acquaintance,  Eip  complied  with  his  usual  alacrity, 
ind  mutually  relieving  each  other,  they  clambered  up  a 
narrow  gully,  apparently  the  dry  bed  of  a  mountain  torrent. 
A.S  they  ascended,  Eip  every  now  and  then  heard  long  roll- 
ng  peals,  like  distant  thunder,  that  seemed  to  issue  out  of 
a  deep  ravine,  or  rather  cleft  between  lofty  rocks,  toward 
which  their  rugged  path  conducted.  He  paused  for  an  in 
stant,  but  supposing  it  to  be  the  muttering  of  one  of  those 
transient  thunder  showers  which  often  take  place  in  the 
mountain  heights,  he  proceeded.  Passing  through  the 
ravine,  they  came  to  a  hollow,  like  a  small  amphitheatre, 
surrounded  by  perpendicular  precipices,  over  the  brinks  of 
which,  impending  trees  shot  their  branches  so  that  you  only 
caught  glimpses  of  the  azure  sky,  and  the  bright  evening 
cloud.  During  the  whole  time,  Eip  and  his  companion  had 
labored  on  in  silence;  for  though  the  former  marvelled 
greatly  what  could  be  the  object  of  carrying  a  keg  of  liquor 
up  this  wild  mountain,  yet  there  was  something  strange 
and  incomprehensible  about  the  unknown,  that  inspired 
awe,  and  checked  familiarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheatre,  new  objects  of  wonder 
presented  themselves.  On  a  level  spot  in  the  centre  was  a 
company  of  odd-looking  personages  playing  at  nine-pins. 
They  were  dressed  in  a  quaint  outlandish  fashion:  some 
wore  short  doublets,  others  jerkins,  with  long  knives  in 
their  belts,  and  most  of  them  had  enormous  breeches,  of 
similar  style  with  that  of  the  guide's.  Their  visages  too, 
were  peculiar:  one  had  a  large  head,  broad  face,  and  small 
piggish  eyes;  the  face  of  another  seemed  to  consist  entirely 
of  nose,  and  was  surmounted  by  a  white  sugar-loaf  hat,  set 
off  with  a  little  red  cock's  tail.  They  all  had  beards,  of 
various  shapes  and  colors.  There  was  one  who  seemed  to 
be  the  commander.  He  was  a  stout  old  gentleman,  with  a 
weather-beaten  countenance;  he  wore  a  laced  doublet, 
broad  belt  and  hanger,  high -crowned  hat  and  feather, 
red  stockings,  and  high-heeled  shoes,  with  roses  in  them. 


42  THE  SKETCR-BOOK. 

The  whole  group  reminded  Kip  of  the  figures  in  an  old 
Flemish  painting,  in  the  parlor  of  Dominie  Van  Schaick, 
the  village  parson,  and  which  had  been  brought  over  from 
Holland  at  the  time  of  the  settlement. 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Kip  was,  that  though 
these  folks  were  evidently  amusing  themselves,  yet  theli 
maintained  the  gravest  faces,  the  most  mysterious  silencel 
and  were,  withal,  the  most  melancholy  party  of  pleasure  ho 
had  ever  witnessed.     Nothing  interrupted  the  stillness  of 
the  scene  but  the  noise  of  the  balls,  which,  whenever  thej 
were    rolled,  echoed   along   the   mountains   like  rumbliiij 
peals  of  thunder. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  them,  they  sud? 
denly  desisted  from  their  play,  and  stared  at  him  with  such 
fixed  statue-like  gaze,  and  such  strange,  uncouth,  lack-lustn 
countenances,  that  his  heart  turned  within  him,  and  hif| 
knees  smote  together.     His  companion  now  emptied  tha 
contents  of  the  keg  into  large  flagons,  and  made  signs  to 
him  to  wait  upon  the  company.     He  obeyed  with  fear  ana 
trembling;   they  quaifed  the  liquor  in  profound  silence! 
and  then  returned  to  their  game. 

By  degrees,  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension  subsided.     Ha 
even  ventured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon  him,  to  tastJ 
the  beverage,  which  he  found  had  much  the  flavor  of  exl 
cellent  Hollands.     He  was  naturally  a  thirsty  soul,  and  wai 
soon  tempted  to  repeat  the  draught.     One  taste  provokecfl 
another,  and  he  reiterated  his  visits  to  the  flagon  so  oftenj 
that  at  length  his  senses  were  overpowered,  his  eyes  swan 
in  his  head,  his  head  gradually  declined,  and  he  fell  into 
deep  sleep. 

On  waking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll  froi 
whence  he  had  first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen.     H< 
rubbed  his  eyes — it  was  a  bright  sunny  morning.     Th< 
birds  were  hopping  and  twittering  among  the  bushes,  andj 
the  eagle  was  wheeling  aloft,  and  breasting  the  pure  moun-j 
tain  breeze.     "Surely,"  thought  Rip,  "I  have  not  slept! 
here  all  night."     He  recalled  the  occurrences  before  he  fell] 
asleep.     The  strange   man  with   the   keg  of  liquor — thej 
mountain  ravine — the  wild  retreat  among  the  rocks — the] 
wo-begone  party  at    nine-pins — the    flagon — "  Oh!    thatj 
wicked  flagon!"  thought  Rip — "what  excuse  shall  I  make] 
to  Dame  Van  Winkle?" 


HIP  VAN  WtNRLti.  43 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of  the  clean, 
well-oiled  fowling-piece,  he  found  an  old  firelock  lying  by 
him,  the  barrel  encrusted  with  rust,  the  .lock  falling  off, 
and  the  stock  worm-eaten.  He  now  suspected  that  the 
grave  roysterers  of  the  mountain  had  put  a  trick  upon  him, 
and  having  dosed  him  with  liquor,  robbed  him  of  his  gun. 
Wolf,  too,  had  disappeared,  but  he  might  have  strayed 
away  after  a  squirrel  or  partridge.  He  whistled  after  him 
and  shouted  his  name,  but  all  in  vain;  the  echoes  repeated 
his  whistle  and  shout,  but  no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 

lie  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last  evening's 
gambol,  and  if  he  met  with  any  of  the  party,  to  demand  his 
•(log  and  gun.  As  he  rose  to  walk,  he  found  himself  stiff 
in  the  joints,  and  wanting  in  his  usual  activity.  "These 
mountain  beds  do  not  agree  with  me/'  thought  Rip,  "and 
if  this  frolic  should  lay  me  up  with  a  fit  of  the  rheumatism, 
I  shall  have  a  blessed  time  with  Dame  Van  Winkle.'' 
With  some  difficulty  he  got  down  into  the  glen;  he  found 
the  gully  up  which  he  and  his  companion  had  ascended 
the  preceding  evening;  but  to  his  astonishment  a  mountain 
stream  was  now  foaming  down  it,  leaping  from  rock  to 
rock,  and  filling  the  glen  with  babbling  murmurs.  He, 
however,  made  shift  to  scramble  up  its  sides,  working  his 
toilsome  way  through  thickets  of  birch,  sassafras,  and 
witch-hazel;  and  sometimes  tripped  up  or  entangled  by 
the  wild  grape  vines  that  twisted  their  coils  and  tendrils 
from  tree  to  tree,  and  spread  a  kind  of  network  in  his  path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had  opened 
through  the  cliffs  to  the  amphitheatre;  but  no  traces  of 
such  opening  remained.  The  rocks  presented  a  high  im 
penetrable  wall,  over  which  the  torrent  came  tumbling  in 
a  sheet  of  feathery  foam,  and  fell  into  a  broad,  deep  basin, 
black  from  the  shadows  of  the  surrounding  forest.  Here, 
then,  poor  Rip  was  brought  to  a  stand.  He  again  called 
and  whistled  after  his  dog;  he  was  only  answered  by  the 
cawing  of  a  flock  of  idle  crows,  sporting  high  in  the  air 
about  a  dry  tree  that  overhung  a  sunny  precipice;  and  who, 
secure  in  their  elevation,  seemed  to  look  down  and  scoff  at 
the  poor  man's  perplexities.  What  was  to  be  done?  The 
morning  was  passing  away,  and  Rip  felt  famished  for  want 
of  his  breakfast.  He  grieved  to  give  up  his  dog  and  gun; 
he  dreaded  to  meet  his  wife;  but  it  would  not  do  to  starve 


44  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

among  the  mountains.  He  shook  his  head,  shouldered  thi 
rusty  firelock,  and  with  a  heart  full  of  trouble  and  anxiety, 
turned  his  steps  homeward. 

As  he  approached  the  village,  he  met  a  number  o 
people,  but  none  whom  he  knew,  which  somewhat  surprised 
him,  for  he  had  thought  himself  acquainted  with  every  one 
in  the  country  round.  Their  dress,  too,  was  of  a  different 
fashion  from  that  to  which  he  was  accustomed.  They  all 
stared  at  him  with  equal  marks  of  surprise,  and  whenever 
they  cast  eyes  upon  him,  invariably  stroked  their  chins. 
The  constant  recurrence  of  this  gesture  induced  Rip,  in 
voluntarily,  to  do  the  same,  when,  to  his  astonishment,  he 
found  his  beard  had  grown  a  foot  long ! 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.     A  troop 
of  strange  children  ran  at  his  heels,  hooting  after  him,  and 
pointing  at  his  grey  beard.     The  dogs,  too,  not  one  of 
which  he  recognized  for  an  old  acquaintance,  barked  at 
him  as  he  passed.     The  very  village  was  altered :  it  was 
larger  and  more  populous.     There  were  rows  of   houses 
which  he  had  never  seen  before,  and  those  which  had  been  I 
his  familiar  haunts  had  disappeared.     Strange  names  were  I 
over  the  doors — strange  faces  at  the  windows — everything  | 
was  strange.     His  mind  now  misgave  him ;  he  began  to  | 
doubt  whether  both  he  and  the  world  around  him  were  not 
bewitched.     Surely  this  was  his  native  village,  which  he  j 
had  left  but  a  day  before.     There   stood  the  Kaatskill 
mountains — there  ran  the  silver  Hudson  at  a  distance — 
there  was  every  hill  and  dale  precisely  as  it  had  always 
been — Rip  was  sorely  perplexed — "  That  flagon  last  night," 
thought  he,  "  has  addled  my  poor  head  sadly  !" 

It  was  with  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  his  way  to 
his  own  house,  which  he  approached  with  silent  awe,  ex 
pecting  every  moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice  of  Dame  Van 
Winkle.  He  found  the  house  gone  to  decay — the  roof 
fallen  in,  the  windows  shattered,  and  the  doors  off  the 
hinges.  A  half-starved  dog,  that  looked  like  Wolf,  was 
skulking  about  it.  Rip  called  him  by  name,  but  the  cur 
snarled,  showed  his  teeth,  and  passed  on.  This  was  an 
unkind  cut  indeed. — "My  very  dog,"  sighed  poor  Rip, 
"  has  forgotten  me  !" 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  Dame 
Van  Winkle  had  always  kept  in  neat  order.  It  was 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE.  46 

empty,  forlorn,  and  apparently  abandoned.  This  desolate- 
ness  overcame  all  his  connubial  fears — he  called  loudly  for 
his  wife  and  children — the  lonely  chambers  rang  for  a 
moment  with  his  voice,  and  then  all  again  was  silence. 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old  resort,  the 
village  inn — but  it  too  was  gone.  A  large  rickety  wooden 
building  stood  in  its  place,  with  great  gaping  windows, 
some  of  them  broken,  and  mended  with  old  hats  and  petti 
coats,  and  over  the  door  was  painted,  "  The  Union  Hotel, 
by  Jonathan  Doolittle."  Instead  of  the  great  tree  that 
used  to  shelter  the  quiet  little  Dutch  inn  of  yore,  there 
now  was  reared  a  tall  naked  pole,  with  something  on  the 
top  that  looked  like  a  red  night-cap,  and  from  it  was 
fluttering  a  flag,  on  which  was  a  singular  assemblage  of 
stars  and  stripes — all  this  was  strange  and  incomprehensi 
ble.  He  recognized  on  the  sign,  however,  the  ruby  face 
of  King  George,  under  which  he  had  smoked  so  many  a 
peaceful  pipe,  but  even  this  was  singularly  metamorphosed. 
The  red  coat  was  changed  for  one  of  blue  and  buff,  a 
sword  was  held  in  the  hand  instead  of  a  sceptre,  the  head 
was  decorated  with  a  cocked  hat,  and  underneath  was 
painted  in  large  characters,  GENERAL  WASHINGTON. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the  door,  but 
none  that  Rip  recollected.  The  very  character  of  the 
people  seemed  changed.  There  was  a  busy,  bustling, 
disputatious  tone  about  it,  instead  of  the  accustomed 
phlegm  and  drowsy  tranquility.  He  looked  in  vain  for 
sage  Nicholas  Vedder,  with  his  broad  face,  double  chin, 
and  fair  long  pipe,  uttering  clouds  of  tobacco  smoke,  in 
stead  of  idle  speeches ;  or  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster, 
doling  forth  the  contents  of  an  ancient  newspaper.  In 
place  of  these,  a  lean  bilious-looking  fellow,  with  his 
pockets  full  of  handbills,  was  haranguing  vehemently 
about  rights  of  citizens — election — members  of  Congress — 
liberty — Bunker's  hill — heroes  of  seventy-six — and  other 
words,  that  was  a  perfect  Babylonish  jargon  to  the  bewil 
dered  Van  Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long,  grizzled  beard,  his 
rusty  fowling-piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  the  army  of 
women  and  children  that  had  gathered  at  his  heels,  soon 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  tavern  politicians.  They 
crowded  round  him,  eyed  him  from  head  to  foot,  with 


46  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

great  curiosity.  The  orator  bustled  up  to  him,  and  draw 
ing  him  partly  aside,  inquired,  "on  which  side  he  voted?" 
Rip  stared  in  vacant  stupidity.  Another  short  but  busy 
little  fellow  pulled  him  by  the  arm,  and  rising  on  tiptoe, 
inquired  in  his  ear,  "whether  he  was  Federal  or  Demo 
crat."  Rip  was  equally  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  the  ques 
tion;  when  a  knowing,  self-important  old  gentleman,  in  a 
sharp  cocked  hat,  made  his  way  through  the  crowd,  put 
ting  them  to  the  right  and  left  with  his  elbows  as  he  passed, 
and  planting  himself  before  Van  Winkle,  with  one  arm 
a-kimbo,  the  other  resting  on  his  cane,  his  keen  eyes  and 
sharp  hat  penetrating,  as  it  were,  into  his  very  soul,  de 
manded  in  an  austere  tone,  "  what  brought  him  to  the 
election  with  a  gun  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  mob  at  his 
heels,  and  whether  he  meant  to  breed  a  riot  in  the  village?" 

"Alas!  gentlemen,"  cried  Rip,  somewhat  dismayed,  "I 
am  a  poor,  quiet  man,  a  native  of  the  place,  and  a  loyal 
subject  of  the  King,  God  bless  him!" 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  b}rstanders — "a 
tory!  a  tory!  a  spy!  a  refugee!  hustle  him!  away  with 
him !" 

It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  the  self-important  man 
in  the  cocked  hat  restored  order;  and  having  assumed  a 
tenfold  austerity  of  brow,  demanded  again  of  the  unknown 
culprit,  what  he  came  there  for,  and  whom  he  was  seeking. 
The  poor  man  humbly  assured  him  that  he  meant  no 
harm,  but  merely  came  there  in  search  of  some  of  his 
neighbors,  who  used  too  keep  about  the  tavern. 

"  Well — who  are  they? — name  them." 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  inquired,  ' '  Where's 
Nicholas  Vedder?" 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while,  when  an  old  man 
replied,  in  a  thin,  piping  voice,  "Nicholas  Vedder?  why, 
he  is  dead  and  gone  these  eighteen  years!  There  was  a 
wooden  tomb-stone  in  the  church-yard  that  used  to  tell  all 
about  him,  but  that's  rotten  and  gone  too." 

"  Where's  Brom  Butcher?" 

"  Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  beginning  of  the 
war;  some  say  lie  was  killed  at  the  storming  of  Stony-Point 
— others  say  he  was  drowned  in  the  pqiuill,  at  the  foot  of 
Antony's  Nose.  I  don't  know — he  never  came  back 
again." 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE.  4? 

"Where's  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster?" 

"  He  went  off  to  the  wars,  too;  was  a  great  militia  gen 
eral,  and  is  now  in  Congress." 

Rip's  heart  died  away,  at  hearing  of  these  sad  changes  in 
his  home  and  friends,  and  finding  himself  thus  alone  in 
the  world.  Every  answer  puzzled  him,  too,  by  treating  of 
such  enormous  lapses  of  time,  and  of  matters  which  he 
could  not  understand:  war — Congress — Stony-Point — he 
had  no  courage  to  ask  after  any  more  friends,  but  cried 
out  in  despair,  "Does  nobody  here  know  Rip  Van 
Winkle?" 

"  Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle!"  exclaimed  two  or  three.  "  Oh, 
to  be  sure!  that's  Rip  Van  Winkle  yonder,  leaning  against 
the  tree." 

Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart  of  himself 
as  he  went  up  the  mountain;  apparently  as  lazy,  and  cer 
tainly  as  ragged.  The  poor  fellow  was  now  completely 
confounded.  He  doubted  his  own  identity,  and  whether 
he  was  himself  or  another  man.  In  the  midst  of  his  be 
wilderment,  the  man  in  the  cocked  hat  demanded  who  he 
was,  and  what  was  his  name? 

"  God  knows,"  exclaimed  he  at  his  wit's  end;  "  I'm  not 
myself — I'm  somebody  else — that's  me  yonder — no — that's 
somebody  else,  got  into  my  shoes — I  was  myself  last  night, 
but  I  fell  asleep  on  the  mountain,  and  they've  changed  rny 
gun,  and  everything's  changed,  and  I'm  changed,  and  I 
can't  tell  what's  my  name,  or  who  I  am!" 

The  by-standers  began  now  to  look  at  each  other,  nod, 
wink  significantly,  and  tap  their  fingers  against  their  fore 
heads.  There  was  a  whisper,  also,  about  securing  the  gun, 
and  keeping  the  old  fellow  from  doing  mischief;  at  the 
very  suggestion  of  which,  the  self-important  man  with  the 
cocked  hat  retired  with  some  precipitation.  At  this  crit 
ical  moment  a  fresh  comely  woman  passed  through  the 
throng  to  get  a  peep  at  the  gray-bearded  man.  She  had  a 
chubby  child  in  her  arms,  which,  frightened  at  his  looks, 
began  to  cry.  "Hush,  Rip,"  cried  she,  "hush  you  little 
fool;  the  old  man  won't  hurt  you."  The  name  of  the  child, 
the  air  of  the  mother,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  all  awakened 
a  train  of  recollections  in  his  mind. 

"What  is  your  name,  my  good  woman?"  asked  he. 

(t  Judith  Gardenier." 


48  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

"  And  your  father's  name?" 

"Ah,  poor  man,  his  name  was  Kip  Van  Winkle;  it's 
twenty  years  since  he  went  away  from  home  with  his  gun, 
and  never  has  been  heard  of  since — his  dog  came  home 
without  him,  but  whether  he  shot  himself,  or  was  carried 
away  by  the  Indians,  nobody  can  tell.  I  was  then  but  a 
little  girl." 

Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask;  but  he  put  it  with 
a  faltering  voice: 

"  Where's  your  mother?" 

Oh,  she  too  had  died  but  a  short  time  since:  she  broke  a 
blood-vessel  in  a  fit  of  passion  at  a  New-England  pedler. 

There  was  a  drop  of  comfort,  at  least,  in  this  intelli 
gence.  The  honest  man  could  contain  himself  no  longer. 
He  caught  his  daughter  and  her  child  in  his  arms.  "  I  am 
your  father!"  cried  he — "Young  Eip  Van  Winkle  once — 
old  Rip  Van  Winkle  now — Does  nobody  know  poor  Rip 
Van  Winkle!" 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  tottering  out 
from  among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and 
peering  under  it  in  his  face  for  a  moment,  exclaimed,  "  Sure 
enough!  it  is  Rip  Van  Winkle — it  is  himself.  Welcome 
home  again,  old  neighbor — Why,  where  have  you  been 
these  twenty  long  years  ?" 

Rip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole  twenty  years  had 
been  to  him  but  as  one  night.  The  neighbors  stared  when 
they  heard  it;  some  were  seen  to  wink  at  each  other,  and 
put  their  tongues  in  their  cheeks;  and  the  self-important 
man  in  the  cocked  hat,  who,  when  the  alarm  was  over,  had 
returned  to  the  field,  screwed  down  the  corners  of  his 
mouth,  and  shook  his  head — upon  which  there  was  a  gen 
eral  shaking  of  the  head  throughout  the  assemblage. 

It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the  opinion  of  old 
Peter  Vanderdonk,  who  was  seen  slowly  advancing  up  the 
road.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the  historian  of  that  name, 
who  wrote  one  of  the  earliest  accounts  of  the  province. 
Peter  was  the  most  ancient  inhabitant  of  the  village,  and 
well  versed  in  all  the  wonderful  events  and  traditions  of  the 
neighborhood.  He  recollected  Rip  at  once,  and  corrob 
orated  his  story  in  the  most  satisfactory  manner.  He 
assured  the  company  that  it  was  a  fact,  handed  down  from 
his  ancestor  the  historian,  that  the  Kaatskill  mountains 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE.  49 

had  always  been  haunted  by  strange  beings.  That  it  was 
affirmed  that  the  great  Hendrick  Hudson,  the  first  discov 
erer  of  the  river  and  country,  kept  a  kind  of  vigil  there 
every  twenty  years,  with  his  crew  of  the  Half-moon,  being 
permitted  in  this  way  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  his  enterprise, 
and  keep  a  guardian  eye  upon  the  river  and  the  great  city 
called  by  his  name.  That  his  father  had  once  seen  them 
ih  their  old  Dutch  dresses  playing  at  nine-pins  in  the  hol 
low  of  the  mountain;  and  that  he  himself  had  heard,  one 
summer  afternoon,  the  sound  of  their  balls,  like  distant 
peals  of  thunder. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company  broke  up  and 
returned  to  the  more  important  concerns  of  the  election. 
Rip's  daughter  took  him  home  to  live  with  her;  she  had  a 
snug,  well-furnished  house,  and  a  stout  cheery  farmer  for 
a  husband,  whom  Rip  recollected  for  one  of  the  urchins 
that  used  to  climb  upon  his  back.  As  to  Rip's  son  and 
heir,  who  was  the  ditto  of  himself,  seen  leaning  against  the 
tree,  he  was  employed  to  work  on  the  farm,  but  evinced  a 
hereditary  disposition  to  attend  to  anything  else  but  his 
business. 

Rip  now  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits;  he  soon  found 
many  of  his  former  cronies,  though  all  rather  the  worse  for 
the  wear  and  tear  of  time;  and  preferred  making  friends 
among  the  rising  generation,  with  whom  he  soon  grew  into 
great  favor. 

Having  nothing  to  do  at  home,  and  being  arrived  at  that 
happy  age  when  a  man  can  do  nothing  with  impunity,  he 
took  his  place  once  more  on  the  bench,  at  the  inn  door, 
and  was  reverenced  as  one  of  the  patriarchs  of  the  village, 
and  a  chronicle  of  the  old  times  "before  the  war."  It  was 
some  time  before  he  could  get  into  the  regular  track  of 
gossip,  or  could  be  made  to  comprehend  the  strange  events 
that  had  taken  place  during  his  torpor.  How  that  there 
had  been  a  revolutionary  war — that  the  country  had  thrown 
off  the  yoke  of  old  England — and  that,  instead  of  being  a 
subject  of  his  majesty  George  the  Third,  he  was  now  a  free 
citizen  of  the  United  States.  Rip,  in  fact,  was  no  politi 
cian;  the  changes  of  states  and  empires  made  but  little 
impression  on  him;  but  there  was  one  species  of  despotism 
under  which  he  had  long  groaned,  and  that  was — petticoat 
government.  Happily,  that  was  at  an  end;  he  had  got  his 


50  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

neck  out  of  the  yoke  of  matrimony,  and  could  go  in  and 
out  whenever  he  pleased,  without  dreading  the  tyranny  of 
Dame  Van  Winkle.  Whenever  her  name  was  mentioned, 
however,  he  shook  his  head,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
cast  up  his  eyes;  which  might  pass  either  for  an  expression 
of  resignation  to  his  fate,  or  joy  at  his  deliverance. 

He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger  that  arrived  at 
Mr.  Doolittle's  hotel.  He  was  observed,  at  first,  to  vary 
on  some  points  every  time  he  told  it,  winch  was  doubtless 
owing  to  his  having  so  recently  awaked.  It  at  last  settled 
down  precisely  to  the  tale  I  have  related,  and  not  a  man, 
woman,  or  child  in  the  neighborhood,  but  knew  it  by  heart: 
Some  always  pretended  to  doubt  the  reality  of  it,  and  in 
sisted  that  Rip  had  been  out  of  his  head,  and  that  this  was 
one  point  on  which  he  always  remained  flighty.  The  old 
Dutch  inhabitants,  however,  almost  universally  gave  it  full 
credit.  Even  to  this  day,  they  never  hear  a  thunder-storm 
of  a  summer  afternoon  about  the  Kaatskill,  but  they  say 
Hendrick  Hudson  and  his  crew  are  at  their  game  of  nine 
pins;  and  it  is  a  common  wish  of  all  henpecked  husbands 
in  the  neighborhood,  when  life  hangs  heavy  on  their  hands, 
that  they  might  have  a  quieting  draft  out  of  Rip  Van 
Winkle's  flagon. 

NOTE.— The  foregoing  tale,  one  would  suspect,  had  been  suggested  to  Mr. 
Knickerbocker  by  a  little  German  superstition  about  the  Emperor  Frederick 
<lrr  Ito/tib'irt  and  the  Kypphauser  mountain ;  the  subjoined  note,  however, 
which  he  had  appended  to  the  tale,  shows  that  it  is  an  absolute  fact,  narrated 
with  his  usual  fidelity. 

"The  story  of  Hip  Van  Winkle  may  seem  incredible  to  many,  but  never 
theless  I  give  it  my  full  belief,  for  I  know  the  vicinity  of  our  old  Dutch  settle 
ments  to  have  been  very  subject  ta  marvellous  events  and  appearances. 
Indeed,  I  have  heard  many  stranger  stories  than  this,  in  the  villages  along  the 
Hudson  ;  all  of  which  were  too  well  authenticated  to  admit  of  a  doubt.  I  have 
even  talked  with  Kip  Van  Winkle  myself,  who,  when  I  last  saw  him,  was  a 
very  venerable  old  man,  and  so  perfectly  rational  and  consistent  on  every  other 
point,  that  I  think  no  conscientious  person  could  refuse  to  take  this  into  the 
barirain  ;  nay,  I  have  seen  a  certificate  on  the  subject  taken  before  a  country 
justice,  and  signed  with  a  cross,  in  the  justice's  own  hand  writing.  The  story, 
therefore,  is  beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt." 


WRITERS  ON  AMERICA.  61 


ENGLISH  WRITEES  ON  AMERICA. 

"Metliinks  I  see  in  iny  mind  a  noble  puissant  nation,  rousing  her 
self  like  a  strong  man  after  sleep,  and  shaking  her  invincible  locks; 
methinks  I  see  her  as  an  eagle,  nievving  her  mighty  youth,  and  kind 
ling  her  endazzled  eyes  at  the  full  mid-day  beam." 

MILTON  ON  THE  LIBERTY  OF  THE  PRESS. 

It  is  with  feelings  of  deep  regret  that  I  observe  the  liter 
ary  animosity  daily  growing  up  between  England  and 
America.  Great  curiosity  has  been  awakened  of  late  with 
respect  to  the  United  States,  and  the  London  press  has 
teemed  with  volumes  of  travels  through  the  Republic;  but 
they  seem  intended  to  diffuse  error  rather  than  knowledge  ; 
and  so  successful  have  they  been,  that,  notwithstanding 
the  constant  intercourse  between  the  nations,  there  is  no 
people  concerning  whom  the  great  mass  of  the  British 
public  have  less  pure  information,  or  entertain  more 
numerous  prejudices. 

English  travellers  are  the  best  and  the  worst  in  the 
world.  Where  no  motives  of  pride  or  interest  intervene, 
none  can  equal  them  for  profound  and  philosophical  views 
of  society,  or  faithful  and  graphical  descriptions  of  external 
objects ;  but  when  either  the  interest  or  reputation  of  their 
own  country  comes  in  collision  with  that  of  another,  they 
go  to  the  opposite  extreme,  and  forget  their  usual  probity 
and  candor,  in  the  indulgence  of  splenetic  remark,  and  an 
illiberal  spirit  of  ridicule. 

Hence,  their  travels  are  more  honest  and  accurate,  the 
in  ore  remote  the  country  described.  I  would  place  im 
plicit  confidence  in  an  Englishman's  description  of  the 
regions  beyond  the  cataracts  of  the  Nile ;  of  unknown 
islands  in  the  Yellow  Sea;  of  the  interior  of  India;  or  of 
any  other  tract  which  other  travellers  might  be  apt  to 
picture  out  with  the  illusions  of  their  fancies.  But  I 
would  cautiously  receive  his  account  of  his  immediate 


52  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

neighbors,  and  of  those  nations  with  which  he  is  in  habits 
of  most  frequent  intercourse.  However  I  might  be  dis 
posed  to  trust  his  probity,  I  dare  not  trust  his  prejudices. 

It  has  also  been  the  peculiar  lot  of  our  country  to  be 
visited  by  the  worst  kind  of  English  travellers.  While 
men  of  philosophical  spirit  and  cultivated  minds  have  been 
sent  from  England  to  ransack  the  poles,  to  penetrate  the 
deserts,  and  to  study  the  manners  and  customs  of  bar 
barous  nations,  with  which  she  can  have  no  permanent 
intercourse  of  profit  or  pleasure;  it  has  been  left  to  the 
broken-down  tradesman,  the  scheming  adventurer,  the 
wandering  mechanic,  the  Manchester  and  Birmingham 
agent,  to  be  her  oracles  respecting  America.  From  such 
sources  she  is  content  to  receive  her  information  respecting 
a  country  in  a  singular  state  of  moral  and  physical 
development;  a  country  in  which  one  of  the  greatest  1 
political  experiments  in  the  history  of  the  world  is  now 
performing,  and  which  presents  the  most  profound  and  \ 
momentous  studies  to  the  statesman  and  the  philosopher. 

That  such   men  should    give    prejudiced    accounts  of 
America,  is  not  a  matter  of  surprise.     The  themes  it  offers 
for  contemplation,  are  too  vast  and   elevated  for  their 
capacities.     The  national  character  is  yet  in  a  state  of  j 
fermentation :  it  may  have  its  f rothiness  and  sediment,  but 
its  ingredients  are  sound   and  wholesome:  it  has  already 
given  proofs  of  powerful  and  generous  qualities;  and  the' 
whole  promises  to  settle  down  in  something  substantially 
excellent.      But     the    causes    which     are     operating    tol 
strengthen  and   ennoble  it,  and  its  daily  indications  of 
admirable   properties,    are   all   lost   upon    these    purblind 
observers;  who  are  only  affected  by   the  little  asperities 
incident  to  its  present  situation.     They  are   capable  ofj 
judging  only  of  the  surface  of  things;  of   those  matters 
which  come  in  contact  with  their  private  interests  and; 
personal  gratifications.     They  miss  some  of  the  snug  con 
veniences  and  petty  comforts  which  belong  to  an  old, 
highly-finished,  and  over-populous  state  of  society;  where' 
the  ranks  of  useful  labor  are  crowded,  and  many  earn  a 
painful  and  servile  subsistence,  by  studying  the  very  caprices 
of  appetite  and  self-indulgence.     These  minor  comforts, 
however,  are  all-important  in   the  estimation  of  narrow 
minds;  which  either  do  not  perceive,  or  will  not  ackuowl- 


ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA.  53 

edge,  that  they  are  more  than  counterbalanced  among  us, 
by  great  and  generally  diffused  blessings. 

They  may,  perhaps,  have  been  disappointed  in  some  un 
reasonable  expectation  of  sudden  gain.  They  may  have 
pictured  America  to  themselves  an  El  Dorado,  where  gold 
and  silver  abounded,  and  the  natives  were  lacking  in  sagac 
ity;  and  where  they  were  to  become  strangely  and  suddenly 
rich,  in  some  unforeseen  but  easy  manner.  The  same  weak 
ness  of  mind  that  indulges  absurd  expectations,  produces 
petulance  in  disappointment.  Such  persons  become  em 
bittered  against  the  country  on  finding  that  there,  as  every 
where  else,  a  man  must  sow  before  he  can  reap;  must  win 
wealth  by  industry  and  talent;  and  must  contend  with  th« 
common  difficulties  of  nature,  and  the  shrewdness  of  an 
intelligent  and  enterprising  people. 

Perhaps,  through  mistaken  or  ill-directed  hospitality,  or 
from  the  prompt  disposition  to  cheer  and  countenance  the 
stranger,  prevalent  among  my  countrymen,  they  may  have 
been  treated  with  unwonted  respect  in  America;  and,  hav 
ing  been  accustomed  all  their  lives  to  consider  themselves 
below  the  surface  of  good  society,  and  brought  up  in  a  ser 
vile  feeling  of  inferiority,  they  become  arrogant,  on  the 
common  boon  of  civility;  they  attribute  to  the  lowliness  of 
others  their  own  elevation;  and  underrate  a  society  where 
there  are  no  artificial  distinctions,  and  where  by  any  chance, 
such  individuals  as  themselves  can  rise  to  consequence. 

One  would  suppose,  however,  that  information  coming 
from  such  sources,  on  a  subject  where  the  truth  is  so  desir 
able,  would  be  received  with  caution  by  the  censors  of  the 
press;  that  the  motives  of  these  men,  their  veracity,  their 
opportunities  of  inquiry  and  observation,  and  their  capaci 
ties  for  judging  correctly,  would  be  rigorously  scrutinized, 
before  their  evidence  was  admitted,  in  such  sweeping  ex 
tent,  against  a  kindred  nation.  The  very  reverse,  however, 
is  the  case,  and  it  furnishes  a  striking  instance  of  human 
inconsistency.  Nothing  can  surpass  the  vigilance  with 
which  English  critics  will  examine  the  credibility  of  the 
traveller  who  publishes  an  account  of  some  distant,  and 
comparatively  unimportant,  country.  How  warily  will 
they  compare  the  measurements  of  a  pyramid,  or  the  de 
scription  of  a  ruin;  and  how  sternly  will  they  censure  any 
inaccuracy  in  these  contributions  of  merely  curious  knowl- 


54  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

edge;  while  they  will  receive,  with  unhesitating  good  faith, 
the  gross  misrepresentations  of  coarse  and  obscure  writers, 
concerning  a  country  with  which  their  own  is  placed  in  the 
most  important  and  delicate  relations.  Nay,  they  will  even 
make  these  apocryphal  volumes  text-hooks,  on  which  to '. 
enlarge,  with  a  zeal  and  an  ability  worthy  of  a  more  gen 
erous  cause. 

I  shall  not,  however,  dwell  on  this  irksome  and  hack 
neyed  topic;  nor  should  I  have  adverted  to  it,  but  for  the 
undue  interest  apparently  taken  in  it  by  my  countrymen, 
and  certain  injurious  effects  which  I  apprehend  it  might 
produce  upon  the  national  feeling.  We  attach  too  much 
consequence  to  these  attacks.  They  cannot  do  us  any  es 
sential  injury.  The  tissue  of  misrepresentations  attempted 
to  be  woven  round  us,  are  like  cobwebs  woven  round  the 
limbs  of  an  infant  giant.  Our  country  continually  out 
grows  them.  One  falsehood  after  another  falls  off  of  itself. 
We  have  but  to  live  on,  and  every  day  we  live  a  whole  vol 
ume  of  refutation.  All  the  writers  of  England  united,  if 
we  could  for  a  moment  suppose  their  great  minds  stooping 
to  so  unworthy  a  combination,  could  not  conceal  our  rap 
idly  growing  importance  and  matchless  prosperity.  They 
could  not  conceal  that  these  are  owing,  not  merely  to  phys 
ical  and  local,  but  also  to  moral  causes;  to  the  political 
liberty,  the  general  diffusion  of  knowledge,  the  prevalence 
of  sound,  moral,  and  religious  principles,  which  give  force 
and  sustained  energy  to  the  character  of  a  people;  and 
which,  in  fact,  have  been  the  acknowledged  and  wonderful 
supporters  of  their  own  national  power  and  glory. 

But  why  are  we  so  exquisitely  alive  to  the  aspersions  of 
England?  Why  do  we  suffer  ourselves  to  be  so  affected  by 
the  contumely  she  has  endeavored  to  cast  upon  us?  It  is 
not  in  the  opinion  of  England  alone  that  honor  lives,  and 
Deputation  has  its  being.  The  world  at  large  is  the  arbiter 
of  a  nation's  fame;  with  its  thousand  eyes  it  witnesses  a 
nation's  deeds,  and  from  their  collective  testimony  is  na 
tional  glory  or  national  disgrace  established. 

For  ourselves,  therefore,  it  is  comparatively  of  but  little 
importance  whether  England  does  us  justice  or  rot;  it  is, 
perhaps,  of  far  more  importance  to  herself.  She  is  instill 
ing  anger  and  resentment  into  the  bosom  of  ;i  youthful  na 
tion,  to  grow  with  its  growth,  and  strengthen  with  its 


ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA.  55 

strength.  If  in  America,  as  some  of  her  writers  are  labor 
ing  to  convince  her,  she  is  hereafter  to  find  an  invidious 
rival,  and  a  gigantic  foe,  she  may  thank  those  very  writers 
for  having  provoked  rivalship,  and  irritated  hostility. 
Every  one  knows  the  all-pervading  influence  of  literature 
at  the  present  day,  and  how  much  the  opinions  and  pas 
sions  of  mankind  are  under  its  control.  The  mere  contests 
of  the  sword  are  temporary;  their  wounds  are  but  in  the 
flesh,  and  it  is  the  pride  of  the  generous  to  forgive  and  for 
get  them;  but  the  slanders  of  the  pen  pierce  to  the  heart; 
they  rankle  longest  in  the  noblest  spirits;  they  dwell  ever 
present  in  the  mind,  and  render  it  morbidly  sensitive  to 
the  most  trifling  collision.  It  is  but  seldom  that  any  one 
overt  act  produces  hostilities  between  two  nations;  there 
exists,  most  commonly,  a  previous  jealousy  and  ill-will,  a 
predisposition  to  take  offence.  Trace  these  to  their  cause, 
and  how  often  will  they  be  found  to  originate  in  the  mis 
chievous  effusions  of  mercenary  writers;  who,  secure  in 
their  closets,  and  for  ignominious  bread,  concoct  and  circu 
late  the  venom  that  is  to  Inflame  the  generous  and  the 
brave. 

I  am  not  laying  too  much  stress  upon  this  point;  for  it 
applies  most  emphatically  to  our  particular  case.  Over  no 
nation  does  the  press  hold  a  more  absolute  control  than 
over  the  people  of  America;  for  the  universal  education  of 
the  poorer  classes  makes  every  individual  a  reader.  There 
is  nothing  published  in  England  on  the  subject  of  our  coun 
try,  that  does  not  circulate  through  every  part  of  it.  There 
is  not  a  calumny  dropt  from  an  English  pen,  nor  an  un 
worthy  sarcasm  uttered  by  an  English  statesman,  that  does 
not  go  to  blight  good-will,  and  add  to  the  mass  of  latent 
resentment.  Possessing,  then,  as  England  does,  the  foun 
tain-head  from  whence  the  literature  of  the  language  flows, 
ho.w  completely  is  it  in  her  power,  and  how  truly  is  it  her 
duty,  to  make  it  the  medium  of  amiable  and  magnanimous 
feeling — a  stream  where  the  two  nations  might  meet  to 
gether,  and  drink  in  peace  and  kindness.  Should  she, 
however,  persist  in  turning  it  to  waters  of  bitterness,  the 
time  may  come  when  she  may  repent  her  folly.  The  pres 
ent  friendship  of  America  may  be  of  but  little  moment  to 
her;  but  the  future  destinies  of  that  country  do  not' admit 
of  ,a  doubt:  over  those  of  England,  there  lower  some  shad- 


56  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

ows  of  uncertainty.  Should,  then,  a  day  of  gloom  arrive 
— should  those  reverses  overtake  her,  from  which  the  proud 
est  empires  have  not  been  exempt — she  may  look  back  with 
regret  at  her  infatuation,  in  repulsing  from  her  side  a  na 
tion  she  might  have  grappled  to  her  bosom,  and  thus  de 
stroying  her  only  chance  for  real  friendship  beyond  the 
boundaries  of  her  own  dominions. 

There  is  a  general  impression  in  England,  that  the  peo 
ple  of  the  United  States  are  inimical  to  the  parent  coun 
try.  It  is  one  of  the  errors  which  has  been  diligently  propa 
gated  by  designing  writers.  There  is,  doubtless,  consider 
able  political  hostility,  and  a  general  soreness  at  the  illiber- 
ality  of  the  English  press;  but,  collectively  speaking,  the 
prepossessions  of  the  people  are  strongly  in  favor  of  Eng 
land.  Indeed,  at  one  time  they  amounted,  in  many  parts 
of  the  Union,  to  an  absurd  degree  of  bigotry.  The  bare 
name  of  Englishman  was  a  passport  to  the  confidence  and 
hospitality  of  every  family,  and  too  often  gave  a  transient 
currency  to  the  worthless  and  the  ungrateful.  Through 
out  the  country,  there  was  something  of  enthusiasm  con 
nected  with  the  idea  of  England.  We  looked  to  it  with  a 
hallowed  feeling  of  tenderness  and  veneration,  as  the  land 
of  our  forefathers — the  august  repository  of  the  monuments 
and  antiquities  of  our  race — the  birth-place  and  mausoleum 
of  the  sages  and  heroes  of  our  paternal  history.  After  our 
own  country,  there  was  none  in  whose  glory  we  more  de 
lighted — none  whose  good  opinion  we  were  anxious  to  pos 
sess — none  toward  which  our  hearts  yearned  with  such 
throbbings  of  warm  consanguinity.  Even  during  the  late 
war,  whenever  there  was  the  least  opportunity  for  kind  feel 
ings  to  spring  forth,  it  was  the  delight  of  the  generous  spir 
its  of  our  country  to  show  that  in  the  midst  of  hostilities 
they  still  kept  alive  the  sparks  of  future  friendship. 

Is  all  this  to  be  at  an  end?  Is  this  golden  band  of 
kindred  sympathies,  so  rare  between  nations,  to  be  broken 
forever? — Perhaps  it  is  for  the  best — it  may  dispel  an  illu 
sion  which  might  have  kept  us  in  mental  vassalage;  which 
might  have  interfered  occasionally  with  our  true  interests, 
and  prevented  the  growth  of  proper  national  pride.  But  it 
is  hard  to  give  up  the  kindred  tie! — and  there  are  feelings 
dearer  than  interest — closer  to  the  heart  than  pride — that 
will  still  make  us  cast  back  a  look  of  regret  as  we  wander 


ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA.  57 

farther  and  farther  from  the  paternal  roof,  and  lament  the 
waywardness  of  the  parent  that  would  repel  the  affections 
of  the  child. 

Short-sighted  and  injudicious,  however,  as  the  conduct 
of  England  may  be  in  this  system  of  aspersion,  recrimina 
tion  on  our  part  would  be  equally  ill-judged.  I  speak  not 
of  a  prompt  and  spirited  vindication  of  our  country,  or  the 
keenest  castigation  of  her  slanderers — but  I  allude  to  a  dis 
position  to  retaliate  in  kind,  to  retort  sarcasm  and  inspire 
prejudice,  which  seems  to  be  spreading  widely  among  our 
writers.  Let  us  guard  particularly  against  such  a  temper; 
for  it  would  double  the  evil,  instead  of  redressing  the 
wrong.  Nothing  is  so  easy  and  inviting  as  the  retort  of 
abuse  and  sarcasm;  but  it  is  a  paltry  and  unprofitable  con 
test.  It  is  the  alternative  of  a  morbid  mind,  fretted  into 
petulance,  rather  than  warmed  into  indignation.  If  Eng 
land  is  willing  to  permit  the  mean  jealousies  of  trade,  or 
the  rancorous  animosities  of  politics,  to  deprave  the 
integrity  of  her  press,  and  poison  the  fountain  of  public 
opinion,  let  us  beware  of  her  example.  She  may  deem  it 
her  interest  to  diffuse  error,  and  engender  antipathy,  for 
the  purpose  of  checking  emigration;  we  have  no  purpose  of 
the  kind  to  serve.  Neither  have  we  any  spirit  of  national 
jealousy  to  gratify;  for  as  yet,  in  all  our  rivalships  with 
England,  we  are  the  rising  and  the  gaining  party.  There 
can  be  no  end  to  answer,  therefore,  but  the  gratification  of 
resentment — a  mere  spirit  of  retaliation;  and  even  that  is 
impotent.  Our  retorts  are  never  published  in  England; 
they  fall  short,  therefore,  of  their  aim;  but  they  foster  a 
querulous  and  peevish  temper  among  our  writers;  they 
sour  the  sweet  flow  of  our  early  literature,  and  sow  thorns 
and  brambles  among,  its  blossoms.  What  is  still  worse, 
they  circulate  through  our  own  country,  and,  as  far  as  they 
have  effect,  excite  virulent  national  prejudices.  This  last 
is  the  evil  most  especially  to  be  deprecated.  Governed,  as 
we  are,  entirely  by  public  opinion,  the  utmost  care  should 
be  taken  to  preserve  the  purity  of  the  public  mind. 
Knowledge  is  power,  and  truth  is  knowledge;  whoever, 
therefore,  knowingly  propagates  a  prejudice,  willfully  saps 
the  foundation  of  his  country's  strength. 

The  members  of  a  republic,  above  all  other  men,  should 
be  candid  and  dispassionate.  They  are,  individually,  por- 


58  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

tions  of  the  sovereign  mind  and  sovereign  will,  and  should 
be  enabled  to  come  to  all  questions  of  national  concern  with 
calm  and  unbiassed  judgments.  From  the  peculiar  nature 
of  our  relations  with  England,  we  must  have  more  frequent 
questions  of  a  difficult  and  delicate  character  with  her, 
than  with  any  other  nation;  questions  that  affect  the  most 
acute  and  excitable  feelings:  and  as,  in  the  adjusting  of 
these,  our  national  measures  must  ultimately  be  determined 
by  popular  sentiment,  we  cannot  be  too  anxiously  attentive 
to  purify  it  from  all  latent  passion  or  prepossession. 

Opening  too,  as  we  do,  an  asylum  for  strangers  from 
every  portion  of  the  earth,  we  should  receive  all  with  im 
partiality.  It  should  be  our  pride  to  exhibit  an  example  of 
one  nation,  at  least,  destitute  of  national  antipathies,  and 
exercising,  not  merely  the  overt  acts  of  hospitality,  but 
those  more  rare  and  noble  courtesies  which  spring  from 
liberality  of  opinion. 

What  have  we  to  do  with  national  prejudices?  They  are 
the  inveterate  diseases  of  old  countries,  contracted  in  rude 
and  ignorant  ages,  when  nations  knew  but  little  of  each 
other,  and  looked  beyond  their  own  boundaries  with  dis 
trust  and  hostility.  We,  on  the  contrary,  have  sprung  into 
national  existence  in  an  enlightened  and  philosophic  age, 
when  the  different  parts  of  the  habitable  world,  and  the 
various  branches  of  the  human  family,  have  been  indefat- 
igably  studied  and  made  known  to  each  other;  and  we 
forego  the  advantages  of  our  birth,  if  we  do  not  shake  off 
the  national  prejudices,  as  we  would  the  local  superstitions, 
of  the  old  world. 

But  above  all,  let  us  not  be  influenced  by  any  angry  feel 
ings,  so  far  as  to  shut  our  eyes  to  the  perception  of  what  is 
really  excellent  and  amiable  in  the  English  character.  AVe 
are  a  young  people,  necessarily  an  imitative  one,  and  must 
take  our  examples  and  models,  in  a  great  degree,  from  the 
existing  nations  of  Europe.  There  is  no  country  more 
worthy  of  our  study  than  England.  The  spirit  of  her  con 
stitution  is  most  analogous  to  ours.  The  manners  of  her 
people — their  intellectual  activity — their  freedom  of  opin 
ion — their  habits  of  thinking  on  those  subjects  which  con 
cern  the  dearest  interests  and  most  sacred  charities  of 
private  life,  are  all  congenial  to  the  American  character; 
and,  in  fact,  are  all  intrinsically  excellent:  for  it  is  in  the 


ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA.  59 

moral  feeling  of  the  people  that  the  deep  foundations  of 
British  prosperity  are  laid;  and  however  the  superstructure 
may  be  time-worn,  or  overrun  by  abuses,  there  must  be 
something  solid  in  the  basis,  admirable  in  the  materials, 
and  stable  in  the  structure  of  an  edifice  that  so  long  has 
towered  unshaken  amid  the  tempests  of  the  world. 

Let  it  be  the  pride  of  our  writers,  therefore,  discarding 
all  feelings  of  irritation,  and  disdaining  to  retaliate  the 
illiberality  of  British  authors,  to  speak  of  the  English  na 
tion  without  prejudice,  and  with  determined  candor.  While 
they  rebuke  the  indiscriminating  bigotry  with  which  some 
of  our  countrymen  admire  and  imitate  everything  English, 
merely  because  it  is  English,  let  them  frankly  point  out 
what  is  really  worthy  of  approbation.  We  may  thus  place 
England  before  us  as  a  perpetual  volume  of  reference, 
wherein  are  recorded  sound  deductions  from  ages  of  expe 
rience;  and  while  we  avoid  the  errors  and  absurdities  that 
have  crept  into  the  page,  we  may  draw  thence  golden 
maxims  of  practical  wisdom,  wherewith  to  strengthen  and 
embellish  our  national  character. 


60  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND. 

Oh!  friendly  to  the  best  pursuits  of  man, 
Friendly  to  thought,  to  virtue,  and  to  peace, 
Domestic  life  in  rural  pleasures  past! 

COWPEK. 

THE  stranger  who  would  form  a  correct  opinion  of  the 
English  character,  must  not  confine  his  observations  to  the 
metropolis.  He  must  go  forth  into  the  country;  he  must 
sojourn  in  villages  and  hamlets;  he  must  visit  castles,  vil 
las,  farm-houses,  cottages;  he  must  wander  through  parks 
and  gardens;  along  hedges  and  green  lanes;  he  must  loiter 
about  country  churches;  attend  wakes  and  fairs,  and  other 
rural  festivals;  and  cope  with  the  people  in  all  their  con 
ditions,  and  all  their  habits  and  humors. 

In  some  countries,  the  large  cities  absorb  the  wealth  and 
fashion  of  the  nation;  they  are  the  only  fixed  abodes  of  ele 
gant  and  intelligent  society,  and  the  country  is  inhabited 
almost  entirely  by  boorish  peasantry.  In  England,  on  the 
contrary,  the  metropolis  is  a  mere  gathering  place,  or  gen 
eral  rendezvous,  of  the  polite  classes,  where  they  devote  a 
small  portion  of  the  year  to  a  hurry  of  gayety  and  dissipa 
tion,  and  having  indulged  this  kind  of  carnival,  return 
again  to  the  apparently  more  congenial  habits  of  rural  life. 
The  various  orders  of  society  are  therefore  diffused  over  the 
whole  surface  of  the  kingdom,  and  the  most  retired  neigh 
borhoods  afford  specimens  of  the  different  ranks. 

The  English,  in  fact,  are  strongly  gifted  with  the  rural 
feeling.  They  possess  a  quick  sensibility  to  the  beauties  of 
nature,  and  a  keen  relish  for  the  pleasures  and  employ 
ments  of  the  country.  This  passion  seems  inherent  in 
them.  Even  the  inhabitants  of  cities,  born  and  brought 
up  among  brick  walls  and  bustling  streets,  enter  with  facil 
ity  into  rural  habits,  and  evince  a  tact  for  rural  occupation. 
The  merchant  has  his  snug  retreat  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
metropolis,  where  he  often  displays  as  much  pride  and  zeai 


RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND.  61 

n  the  cultivation  of  his  flower-garden,  and  the  maturing  of 
lis  fruits,  as  he  does  in  the  conduct  of  his  business,  and 
;he  success  of  a  commercial  enterprise.  Even  those  less 
'ortunate  individuals,  who  are  doomed  to  pass  their  lives  in 
;he  midst  of  din  and  traffic,  contrive  to  have  something 
;hat  shall  remind  them  of  the  green  aspect  of  nature.  In 
the  most  dark  and  dingy  quarters  of  the  city,  the  drawing- 
room  window  resembles  frequently  a  bank  of  flowers;  every 
ipot  capable  of  vegetation  has  its  grass-plot  and  flower-bed; 
md  every  square  its  mimic  park,  laid  out  with  picturesque 
;aste,  and  gleaming  with  refreshing  verdure. 

Those  who  see  the  Englishman  only  in  town,  are  apt  to 
:orm  an  unfavorable  opinion  of  his  social  character.  He  is 
either  absorbed  in  business,  or  distracted  by  the  thousand 
engagements  that  dissipate  time,  thought,  and  feeling,  in 
;his  huge  metropolis.  He  has,  therefore,  too  commonly, 

look  of  hurry  and  abstraction.  Wherever  he  happens 
;o  be,  he  is  on  the  point  of  going  somewhere  else;  at  the 
moment  he  is  talking  on  one  subject,  his  mind  is  wan 
dering  to  another;  and  while  paying  a  friendly  visit,  he 
s  calculating  how  he  shall  economize  time  so  as  to  pay 
;he  other  visits  allotted  to  the  morning.  An  immense 
metropolis,  like  London,  is  calculated  to  make  men  sel- 
ish  and  uninteresting.  In  their  casual  and  transient 
meetings,  they  can  but  deal  briefly  in  commonplaces. 
They  present  but  the  cold  superfices  of  character — its 
rich  and  genial  qualities  have  no  time  to  be  warmed  into 

flow. 

It  is  in  the  country  that  the  Englishman  gives  scope 
;o  his  natural  feelings.  He  breaks  loose  gladly  from  the 
:old  formalities  and  negative  civilities  of  town;  throws 
off  his  habits  of  shy  reserve,  and  becomes  joyous  and  free- 
learted.  He  manages  to  collect  round  him  all  the  con 
veniences  and  elegancies  of  polite  life,  and  to  banish  its  re 
straints.  His  country  seat  abounds  with  every  requisite, 
ither  for  studious  retirement,  tasteful  gratification,  or 
rural  exercise.  Books,  paintings,  music,  horses,  dogs,  and 
sporting  implements  of  all  kinds,  are  at  hand.  He  puts 
no  constraint,  either  upon  his  guests  or  himself,  but,  in 
the  true  spirit  of  hospitality,  provides  the  means  of  enjoy 
ment,  and  leaves  everyone  to  partake  according  to  his  incli 
nation.  • 


62  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

The  taste  of  the  English  in  the  cultivation  of  land,  and 
in  what  is  called  landscape  gardening,  is  unrivalled.  Thej 
have  studied  Nature  intently,  and  discovered  an  exquisite 
sense  of  her  beautiful  forms  and  harmonious  combinations.' 
Those  charms  which,  in  other  countries,  she  lavishes  ift 
wild  solitudes,  are  here  assembled  round  the  haunts  ol 
domestic  life.  They  seem  to  have  caught  her  coy  and 
furtive  graces,  and  spread  them,  like  witchery,  about  thei^ 
rural  abodes. 

Nothing  can  be  more  imposing  than  the  magnificence  of 
English  park  scenery.  Vast  lawns  that  extend  like  sheet! 
of  vivid  green,  with  here  and  there  clumps  of  gigantioj 
trees,  heaping  up  rich  piles  of  foliage.  The  solemn  pomp' 
of  groves  and  woodland  glades,  with  the  deer  trooping  m 
silent  herds  across  them;  the  hare,  bounding  away  to  thl 
covert;  or  the  pheasant,  suddenly  bursting  upon  the  wing.J 
The  brook,  taught  to  wind  in  natural  meanderings,  or  ex| 
pand  into  a  glassy  lake — the  sequestered  pool,  rerlectinaj 
the  quivering  trees,  with  the  yellow  leaf  sleeping  on  its 
bosom,  and  the  trout  roaming  fearlessly  about  its  limpid 
waters:  while  some  rustic  temple,  or  sylvan  statue,  grown 
green  and  dank  with  age,  gives  an  air  of  classic  sanctity  tdj 
the  seclusion. 

These  are  but  a  few  of  the  features  of  park  scenery;  but 
what  most  delights  me,  is  the  creative  talent  with  which, 
the  English  decorate  the  unostentatious  abodes  of  middle 
life.  The  rudest  habitation,  the  most  unpromising  and 
scanty  portion  of  land,  in  the  hands  of  an  Englishman  of 
taste,  becomes  a  little  paradise.  With  a  nicely  discrimi 
nating  eye,  he  seizes  at  once  upon  its  capabilities,  and! 
pictures  in  his  mind  the  future  landscape.  The  sterile 
spot  grows  into  loveliness  under  his  hand;  and  yet  the- 
operations  of  art  which  produce  the  effect  are  scarcely  to' 
be  perceived.  The  cherishing  and  training  of  some  trees; 
the  cautious  pruning  of  others;  the  nice  distribution  of; 
flowers  and  plants  of  tender  and  graceful  foliage;  the  intro 
duction  of  a  green  slope  of  velvet  turf;  the  partial  opening 
to  a  peep  of  blue  distance,  or  silver  gleam  of  water — all 
these  are  managed  with  a  delicate  tact,  a  pervading  yet 
quiet  assiduity,  like  the  magic  touchings  with  which  a 
painter  finishes  up  a  favorite  picture. 

The  residence  of  people  of  fortune  and  refinement  in  the 


RURAL  LIFE  Iff  ENGLAND.  63 

sountry,  has  diffused  a  degree  of  taste  and  elegance  in 
•ural  economy,  that  descends  to  the  lowest  class.  The 
srery  laborer,  with  his  thatched  cottage  and  narrow  slip  of 
ground,  attends  to  their  embellishment.  The  trim  hedge, 
;he  grass-plot  before  the  door,  the  little  flower-bed  bordered 
with  snug  box,  the  woodbine  trained  up  against  the  wall, 
and  hanging  its  blossoms  about  the  lattice;  the  pot  of 
lowers  in  the  window;  the  holly,  providently  planted  about 
the  house,  to  cheat  winter  of  its  dreariness,  and  to  throw 
n  a  semblance  of  green  summer  to  cheer  the  fireside; — all 
;hese  bespeak  the  influence  of  taste,  flowing  down  from 
high  sources,  and  pervading  the  lowest  levels  of  the  public 
mind.  If  ever  Love,  as  poets  sing,  delights  to  visit  a 
:ottage,  it  must  be  the  cottage  of  an  English  peasant. 

The  fondness  for  rural  life  among  the  higher  classes  of 
the  English,  has  had  a  great  and  salutary  effect  upon  the 
national  character.  I  do  not  know  a  finer  race  of  men 
;han  the  English  gentlemen.  Instead  of  the  softness  and 
iffeminacy  which  characterize  the  men  of  rank  in  most 
countries,  they  exhibit  an  union  of  elegance  and  strength, 
a  robustness  of  frame  and  freshness  of  complexion,  which 
~  am  inclined  to  attribute  to  their  living  so  much  in  the 
open  air,  and  pursuing  so  eagerly  the  invigorating  recre 
ations  of  the  country.  The  hardy  exercises  produce  also  a 
lealthful  tone  of  mind  and  spirits,  and  a  manliness  and 
simplicity  of  manners,  which  even  the  follies  and  dissi 
pations  of  the  town  cannot  easily  pervert,  and  can  never 
sntirely  destroy.  In  the  country,  too,  the  different  orders 
of  society  seem  to  approach  more  freely,  to  be  more  dis- 
sosed  to  blend  and  operate  favorably  upon  each  other. 
The  distinctions  between  them  do  not  appear  to  be  so 
marked  and  impassable,  as  in  the  cities.  The  manner  in 
which  property  has  been  distributed  into  small  estates  and 
!anns,  has  established  a  regular  gradation  from  the  noble 
men,  through  the  classes  of  gentry,  small  landed  proprietors, 
and  substantial  farmers,  down  to  the  laboring  peasantry; 
and  while  it  has  thus  banded  the  extremes  of  society 
;ogether,  has  infused  into  each  intermediate  rank  a  spirit 
of  independence.  This,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  not  so 
universally  the  case  at  present  as  it  was  formerly;  the 
arger  estates  having,  in  late  years  of  distress,  absorbed  the 
smaller,  and,  in  some  parts  of  the  country,  almost  annihi- 


64  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

lated  the  sturdy  race  of  small  farmers.  These,  however, 
I  believe,  are  but  casual  breaks  in  the  general  system  1 
have  mentioned. 

In  rural  occupation,  there  is  nothing  mean  and  debas- : 
ing.     It  leads  a  man  forth  among  scenes  of  natural  grandeur  I 
and  beauty;  it  leaves  him  to  the  workings  of  his  own  mind,  j 
operated  upon  by  the  purest  and  most  elevating  of  external 
influences.     Such  a  man  may  be  simple  and  rough,  but  hei 
cannot  be  vulgar.     The  man  of  refinement,  therefore,  finds] 
nothing  revolting  in  an  intercourse  with  the  lower  orders  ] 
in  rural  life,  as  he  does  when  he  casually  mingles  with  the; 
lower  orders  of  cities.     He  lays  aside  his  distance  and  re 
serve,  and  is  glad  to  waive  the  distinctions  of  rank,  and  to 
enter  into  the  honest,  heartfelt  enjoyments  of  common  life.  : 
Indeed,  the  very  amusements  of  the   country  bring  men* 
more  and  more  together;   and  the  sound  of  hound  andj 
horn  blend  all  feelings  into  harmony.     I  believe  this  is  one 
great  reason  why  the  nobility  and  gentry  are  more  popular 
among  the  inferior  orders  in  England,  than  they  are  in  any 
other  country:  and  why  the  latter  have  endured  so  many 
excessive  pressures  and  extremities,  without  repining  more 
generally  at  the  unequal  distribution  of  fortune  and  privi 
lege. 

To  this  mingling  of  cultivated  and  rustic  society,  may 
also  be  attributed  the  rural  feeling  that  runs  through  Brit 
ish  literature;  the  frequent  use  of  illustrations  from  rural 
life;  those  incomparable  descriptions  of  Nature,  that  abound 
in  the  British  poets — that  have  continued  down  from  "The 
Flower  and  the  Leaf"  of  Chaucer,  and  have  brought  into 
our  closets  all  the  freshness  and  fragrance  of  the  dewy 
landscape.  The  pastoral  writers  of  other  countries  appear 
as  if  they  had  paid  Nature  an  occasional  visit,  and  become 
acquainted  with  her  general  charms;  but  the  British  poets 
have  lived  and  revelled  with  her — they  have  wooed  her  in 
her  most  secret  haunts — they  have  watched  her  minutest 
caprices.  A  spray  could  not  tremble  in  the  breeze — a  leaf 
could  not  rustle  to  the  ground — a  diamond  drop  could  not 
patter  in  the  stream — a  fragrance  could  not  exhale  from 
the  humble  violet,  nor  a  daisy  unfold  its  crimson  tints  to 
the  morning,  but  it  has  been  noticed  by  these  impassioned 
and  delicate  observers,  and  wrought  up  into  some  beauti 
ful  morality. 


RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND.  65 

The  effect  of  this  devotion  of  elegant  minds  to  rural  oc 
cupations,  has  been  wonderful  on  the  face  of  the  country. 
A  great  part  of  the  island  is  rather  level,  and  would  be 
monotonous,  were  it  not  for  the  charms  of  culture;  but  it 
is  studded  and  gemmed,  as  it  were,  with  castles  and  pal 
aces,  and  embroidered  with  parks  and  gardens.  It  does 
not  abound  in  grand  and  sublime  prospects,  but  rather  in 
little  home  scenes  of  rural  repose  and  sheltered  quiet. 
Every  antique  farm-house  and  moss-grown  cottage  is  a  pict 
ure;  and  as  the  roads  are  continually  winding,  and  the 
view  is  shut  in  by  groves  and  hedges,  the  eye  is  delighted 
by  a  continual  succession  of  small  landscapes  of  captivating 
loveliness. 

The  great  charm,  however,  of  English  scenery,  is  the 
moral  feeling  that  seems  to  pervade  it.  It  is  associated  in 
the  mind  with  ideas  of  order,  of  quiet,  of  sober  well-estab 
lished  principles,  of  hoary  usage  and  reverend  custom. 
Everything  seems  to  be  the  growth  of  ages  of  regular  and 
peaceful  existence.  The  old  church,  of  remote  architec 
ture,  with  its  low  massive  portal;  its  gothic  tower,  its 
windows,  rich  with  tracery  and  painted  glass,  in  scrupulous 
preservation — its  stately  monuments  of  warriors  and  wor 
thies  of  the  olden  time,  ancestors  of  the  present  lords  of  the 
soil — its  tombstones,  recording  successive  generations  of 
sturdy  yeomanry,  whose  progeny  still  plow  the  same  fields, 
and  kneel  at  the  same  altar — the  parsonage,  a  quaint,  ir 
regular  pile,  partly  antiquated,  but  repaired  and  altered  in 
the  tastes  of  various  ages  and  occupants — the  stile  and  foot 
path  leading  from  the  church-yard,  across  pleasant  fields 
and  along  shady  hedge-rows,  according  to  an  immemorable 
right  of  way — the  neighboring  village,  with  its  venerable 
cottages,  its  public  green,  sheltered  by  trees,  under  which 
the  forefathers  of  the  present  race  have  sported — the  an 
tique  family  mansion,  standing  apart  in  some  little  rural 
domain,  but  looking  down  with  a  protecting  air  on  the  sur 
rounding  scene — all  these  common  features  of  English 
landscape  evince  a  calm  and  settled  security,  a  hereditary 
transmission  of  homebred  virtues  and  local  attachments, 
that  speak  deeply  and  touchingly  for  the  moral  character 
of  the  nation. 

It  is  a  pleasing  sight,  of  a  Sunday  morning,  when  the 
bell  is  sending  its  sober  melody  across  the  quiet  fields,  te 


66  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

behold  the  peasantry  in  their  best  finery,  with  ruddy  faces, 
and  modest  cheerfulness,  throngirfg  tranquilly  along  the 
green  lanes  to  church;  but  it  is  still  more  pleasing  to  see 
them  in  the  evenings,  gathering  about  their  cottage  doors, 
and  appearing  to  exult  in  the  humble  comforts  and  embel 
lishments  which  their  own  hands  have  spread  around  them. 
It  is  this  sweet  home  feeling,  this  settled  repose  of  affec 
tion  in  the  domestic  scene,  that  is,  after  all,  the  parent  of 
the  steadiest  virtues  and  purest  enjoyments;  and  I  cannot  3 
close  these  desultory  remarks  better,  than  by  quoting  the  | 
words  of  a  modern  English  poet,  who  has  depicted  it  with] 
remarkable  felicity: 

, 

Through  each  gradation,  from  the  castled  hall, 
The  city  dome,  the  villa  crowned  with  shade, 
But  chief  from  modest  mansions  numberless, 
In  town  or  hamlet,  shelt'ring  middle  life, 
Down  to  the  cottaged  vale,  and  straw-roof'd  shed, 
This  western  isle  has  long  been  famed  for  scenes 
Where  bliss  domestic  finds  a  dwelling  place: 
Domestic  bliss,  that  like  a  harmless  dove 
(Honor  and  sweet  endearment  keeping  guard), 
Can  centre  in  a  little  quiet  nest 
All  that  desire  would  fly  for  through  the  earth; 
That  can,  the  world  eluding,  be  itself 
A  world  enjoyed;  that  wants  no  witnesses 
But  its  own  sharers,  and  approving  Heaven. 
That,  like  a  flower  deep  hid  in  rocky  cleft, 
Smiles,  though  'tis  only  looking  at  the  sky.* 

*  From  a  poem  on  the  death  of  the  Princess  Charlotte,  by  the  Kevercnd 
Rann  Kennedy,  A.  M. 


THE  BROKEN  HEART.  67 


THE  BROKEN  HEART. 

I  never  heard 

Of  any  true  affection,  but  'twas  nipt 
With  care,  that,  like  the  caterpillar,  eats  • 

The  leaves  of  the  spring's  sweetest  book,  the  rose. 

MlDDLETON. 

IT  is  a  common  practice  with  those  who  have  outlived 
the  susceptibility  of  early  feeling,  or  have  been  brought  up 
in  the  gay  heartlessness  of  dissipated  life,  to  laugh  at  all 
love  stories,  and  to  treat  the  tales  of  romantic  passion  as 
mere  fictions  of  novelists  and  poets.  My  observations  on 
human  nature  have  induced  me  to  think  otherwise.  They 
have  convinced  me,  that  however  the  surface  of  the  char 
acter  may  be  chilled  and  frozen  by  the  cares  of  the  world, 
or  cultivated  into  mere  smiles  by  the  arts  of  society,  still 
there  are  dormant  fires  lurking  in  the  depths  of  the  coldest 
bosom,  which,  when  once  enkindled,  become  impetuous, 
and  are  sometimes  desolating  in  their  effects.  Indeed,  I 
am  a  true  believer  in  the  blind  deity,  and  go  to  the  full 
extent  of  his  doctrines.  Shall  I  confess  it? — I  believe  in 
broken  hearts,  and  the  possibility  of  dying  of  disap 
pointed  love!  I  do  not,  Jiowever,  consider  it  a  malady 
often  fatal  to  my  own  sex;  but  I  firmly  believe  that  it 
withers  down  many  a  lovely  woman  into  an  early  grave. 

Man  is  the  creature  of  interest  and  ambition.  His 
nature  leads  him  forth  into  the  struggle  and  bustle  of  the 
world.  Love  is  but  the  embellishment  of  his  early,  life,  or 
a  song  piped  in  the  intervals  of  the  acts.  He  seeks  for 
fame,  for  fortune,  for  space  in  the  world's  thought,  and 
dominion  over  his  fellow-men.  But  a  woman's  whole  life 
is  a  history  of  the  affection.  The  heart  is  her  world;  it  is 
there  her  ambition  strives  for  empire — it  is  there  her 
avarice  seeks  for  hidden  treasures."  She  sends  forth  her 
sympathies  on  adventure;  she  embarks  her  whole  soul  in 
the  traffic  of  affection;  and  if  shipwrecked,  her  case  is 
hopeless — for  it  is  a  bankruptcy  of  the  heart, 


68  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

To  a  man,  the  disappoinment  of  love  may  occasion  some 
bitter  pangs:  it  wounds  some  feelings  of  tenderness — it 
blasts  some  prospects  of  felicity;  but  he  is  an  active  being; 
he  may  dissipate  his  thoughts  in  the  whirl  of  varied  occu 
pation,  or  may  plunge  into  the  tide  of  pleasure;  or,  if  the 
scene  of  disappointment  be  too  full  of  painful  associations, 
he  can  shift  his  abode  at  will,  and  taking,  as  it  were,  the 
wings  of  the  morning,  can  ( '  fly  to  the  uttermost  parts  of 
the  earth,  and  be  at  rest." 

But  woman's  is  comparatively  a  fixed,  a  secluded,  and  a 
meditative  life.  She  is  more  the  companion  of  her  own 
thoughts  and  feelings;  and  if  they  are  turned  to  ministers 
of  sorrow,  where  shall  she  look  for  consolation?  Her  lot  is 
to  be  woed  and  won;  and  if  unhappy  in  her  love,  her  heart 
is  like  some  fortress  that  has  been  captured,  and  sacked, 
and  abandoned,  and  left  desolate. 

How  many  bright  eyes  grow  dim — how  many  soft  cheeks 
grow  pale — how  many  lovely  forms  fade  away  into  the 
tomb,  and  none  can  tell  the  cause  that  blighted  their  love 
liness!  As  the  dove  will  clasp  its  wings  to  its  side,  and 
cover  and  conceal  the  arrow  that  is  preying  on  its  vitals — 
so  is  it  the  nature  of  woman  to  hide  from  the  world  the 
pangs  of  wounded  affection.  The  love  of  a  delicate  female 
is  always  shy  and  silent.  Even  when  fortunate,  she 
scarcely  breathes  it  to  herself;  but  when  otherwise,  she 
buries  it  in  the  recesses  of  her  bosom,  and  there  lets  it 
cower  and  brood  among  the  ruins  of  her  peace.  With  her, 
the  desire  of  her  heart  has  failed — the  great  charm  of  exist 
ence  is  at  an  end.  She  neglects  all  the  cheerful  exercises 
which  gladden  the  spirits,  quicken  the  pulses,  and  send  the 
tide  of  life  in  healthful  currents  through  the  veins.  Her 
rest  is  broken — the  sweet  refreshment  of  sleep  is  poisoned 
by  melancholy  dreams — "dry  sorrow  drinks  her  blood," 
until  her  enfeebled  frame  sinks  under  the  slightest  external 
injury.  Look  for  her,  after  a  while,  and  you  find  friendship 
weeping  over  her  untimely  grave,  and  wondering  that  one,  I 
who  but  lately  glowed  with  all  the  radiance  of  health  and 
beauty,  should  so  speedily  be  brought  down  to  "darkness 
and  the  worm."  You  will  be  told  of  some  wintry  chill, 
Borne  casual  indisposition,  that  laid  her  low — but  no  one' 
knows  the  mental  malady  that  previously  sapped  her 
strength,  and  made  her  so  easy  a  prey  to  the  spoiler. 


THE  BROKEN  HEART.  69 

She  is  like  some  tender  tree,  the  pride  and  beauty  of  the 
grove:  graceful  in  its  form,  bright  in  its  foliape,  but  with 
the  worm  preying  at  its  heart.  We  find  it  suddenly  wither 
ing,  when  it  should  be  most  fresh  and  luxuriant.  We  see  it 
drooping  its  branches  to  the  earth,  and  shedding  leaf  by 
leaf;  until,  wasted  and  perished  away,  it  falls  even  in  the 
stillness  of  the  forest;  and  as  we  muse  over  the  beautiful 
ruin,  we  strive  in  vain  to  recollect  the  blast  or  thunderbolt 
that  could  have  smitten  it  with  decay. 

I  have  seen  many  instances  of  women  running  to  waste 
and  self-neglect,  and  disappearing  gradually  from  the  earth, 
almost  as  if  they  had  been  exhaled  to  heaven;  and  have  re 
peatedly  fancied  that  I  could  trace  their  deaths  through 
the  various  declensions  of  consumption,  cold,  debility,  lan 
guor,  melancholy,  until  I  reached  the  first  symptom  of  dis 
appointed  love.  But  an  instance  of  the  kind  was  lately 
told  to  me;  the  circumstances  are  well  known  in  the  coun 
try  where  they  happened,  and  I  shall  but  give  them  in  the 
manner  in  which  they  were  related. 

Everyone  must  recollect  the  tragical  story  of  young  E , 

the  Irish  patriot:  it  was  too  touching  to  be  soon  forgotten. 
During  the  troubles  in  Ireland  he  was  tried,  condemned, 
arid  executed,  on  a  charge  of  treason.  His  fate  made  a 
deep  impression  on  public  sympathy.  He  was  so  young — 
so  intelligent — so  generous — so  brave — so  everything  that 
we  are  apt  to  like  in  a  young  man.  His  conduct  under 
trial,  too,  was  so  lofty  and  intrepid.  The  noble  indigna 
tion  with  which  he  repelled  the  charge  of  treason  against 
his  country — the  eloquent  vindication  of  his  name — and 
his  pathetic  appeal  to  posterity,  in  the  hopeless  hour  of 
condemnation — all  these  entered  deeply  in  every  generous 
bosom,  and  even  his  enemies  lamented  the  stern  policy  that 
dictated  his  execution. 

But  there  was  one  heart,  whose  anguish  it  would  be  im 
possible  to  describe.  In  happier  days  and  fairer  fortunes, 
he  had  won  the  affections  of  a  beautiful  and  interesting 
girl,  the  daughter  of  a  late  celebrated  Irish  barrister.  She 
loved  him  with  the  disinterested  fervor  of  a  woman's  first 
and  early  love.  When  every  worldly  maxim  arrayed  itself 
against  him;  when  blasted  in  fortune,  and  disgrace  and 
danger  darkened  around  his  name,  she  loved  him  the  more 
ardently  for  his  very  sufferings.  If,  then,  his  fate  coul^ 


70  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

awaken  the  sympathy  even  of  his  foes,  what  must  have  ; 
been  the  agony  of  her,  whose  whole  sonl  was  occupied  by  ] 
his  image?  Let  those  tell  who  have  had  the  portals  of  the  \ 
tomb  suddenly  closed  between  them  and  the  being  they  ! 
most  loved  on  earth — who  have  sat  at  its  threshold,  as  one  < 
shut  out  in  a  cold  and  lonely  world,  from  whence  all  that- 1 
WHS  most  lovely  and  loving  had  departed. 

But  then  the  horrors  of  such  a  grave! — so  frightful,  so 
dishonored!     There  was  nothing  for  memory  to  dwell  on  i 
that  could  soothe  the  pang  of  separation — none  of  those 
tender,  though  melancholy  circumstances,  that  endear  thej 
parting  scene — nothing  to  melt  sorrow  into  those  blessed' 
tears,  sent,  like  the  dews  of  heaven,  to  revive  the  heart  in 
the  parting  hour  of  anguish. 

To  render  her  widowed  situation  more  desolate,  she  had 
incurred  her  father's  displeasure  by  her  unfortunate  attach 
ment,  and  was  an  exile  from  the  paternal  roof.  But  could 
the  sympathy  and  kind  offices  of  friends  have  reached  a 
spirit  so  shocked  and  driven  in  by  horror,  she  would  have 
experienced  no  want  of  consolation,  for  the  Irish  are  a  peo 
ple  of  quick  and  generous  sensibilities.  The  most  delicate 
and  cherishing  attentions  were  paid  her,  by  families  of 
wealth  and  distinction.  She  was  led  into  society,  and  they 
tried  all  kinds  of  occupation  and  amusement  to  dissipate 
her  grief,  and  wean  her  from  the  tragical  story  of  her  lover. 
But  it  was  all  in  vain.  There  are  some  strokes  of  calamity 
that  scathe  and  scorch  the  soul — that  penetrate  to  the  vital 
seat  of  happiness — and  blast  it,  never  again  to  put  forth 
bud  or  blossom.  She  never  objected  to  frequent  the  haunts 
of  pleasure,  but  she  was  as  much  alone  there,  as  in  the 
depths  of  solitude.  She  walked  about  in  a  sad  reverie,  ap 
parently  unconscious  of  the  world  around  her.  She  carried 
with  her  an  inward  woe  that  mocked  at  all  the  blandishments 
of  friendship,  and  "heeded  not  the  song  of  the  charmer, 
charm  he  never  so  wisely." 

The  person  who  told  me  her  story  had  seen  her  at  a  mas 
querade.  There  can  be  no  exhibition  of  far-gone  wretched 
ness  more  striking  and  painful  than  to  meet  it  in  such  a 
scene.  To  find  it  wandering  like  a  spectre,  lonely  and  joy 
less,  where  all  around  is  gay — to  see  it  dressed  out  in  the 
trappings  of  mirth,  and  looking  so  wan  and  wo-begone,  as 
if  it  had  tried  in  vain  to  cheat  the  poor  heart  into  a  moment- 


THE  BROKEN  HEART.  71 

ary  forgetfulness  of  sorrow.  After  strolling  through  the 
splendid  rooms  and  giddy  crowd  with  an  air  of  utter  ab 
straction,  she  sat  herself  down  on  the  steps  of  an  orchestra, 
and  looking  about  for  some  time  with  a  vacant  air,  that 
showed  her  insensibility  to  the  garish  scene,  she  began, 
with  the  capriciousness  of  a  sickly  heart,  to  warble  a  little 
plaintive  air.  She  had  an  exquisite  voice;  but  on  this 
occasion  it  was  so  simple,  so  touching- — it  breathed  forth 
such  a  soul  of  wretchedness — that  she  drew  a  crowd,  mute 
and  silent,  around  her,  and  melted  everyone  into  tears. 

The  story  of  one  so  true  and  tender  could  not  but  excite 
great  interest  in  a  country  remarkable  for  enthusiasm.  It 
completely  won  the  heart  of  a  brave  officer,  who  paid  his 
addresses  to  her,  and  thought  that  one  so  true  to  the  dead 
could  not  but  prove  affectionate  to  the  living.  She  declined 
his  attentions,  for  her  thoughts  were  irrecoverably  engrossed 
by  the  memory  of  her  former  lover.  He,  however,  per 
sisted  in  his  suit.  He  solicited  not  her  tenderness,  but  her 
esteem.  He  was  assisted  by  her  conviction  of  his  worth, 
and  her  sense  of  her  own  destitute  and  dependent  situation, 
for  she  was  existing  on  the  kindness  of  friends.  In  a 
word,  he  at  length  succeeded  in  gaining  her  hand,  though 
with  the  solemn  assurance  that  her  heart  was  unalterably 
another's. 

He  took  her  with  him  to  Sicily,  hoping  that  a  change  of 
scene  might  wear  out  the  remembrance  of  early  woes.  She 
was  an  amiable  and  exemplary  wife,  and  made  an  effort  to 
be  a  happy  one;  but  nothing  could  cure  the  silent  and  de 
vouring  melancholy  that  had  entered  into  her  very  soul. 
She  wasted  away  in  a  slow,  but  hopeless  decline,  and  at 
length  sunk  into  the  grave,  the  victim  of  a  broken  heart. 

It  was  on  her  that  Moore,  the  distinguished  Irish  poet, 
composed  the  following  lines: 

She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps, 

And  lovers  around  her  are  sighing; 
But  coldly  she  turns  from  their  gaze,  and  weeps, 

For  her  heart  in  his  grave  is  lying. 

She  sings  the  wild  song  of  her  dear  native  plains, 

Every  note  which  he  loved  awaking — 
Ah!  little  they  think,  who  delight  in  her  strains, 

How  the  heart  of  the  minstrel  is  breaking! 


72  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

He  had  lived  for  his  love — for  his  country  he  died, 
They  were  all  that  to  life  had  entwined  him— 

Nor  soon  shall  the  tears  of  his  country  be  dried, 
Nor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  himl 

Oh!  make  her  a  grave  where  the  sunbeams  rest, 
When  they  promise  a  glorious  morrow; 

They'll  shine  o'er  her  sleep,  like  a  smile  from  the  west. 
From  her  own  loved  island  of  sorrow  1 


TEE  ART  OF  BOOK-MAKING. 


THE  ART  OF  BOOK-MAKING. 

"  If  that  severe  doom  of  Synesius  be  true — '  it  is  a  greater  offence 
to  steal  dead  men's  labors  than  their  clothes,' — what  shall  becom* 
of  most  writers '(" 

BURTON'S  Anatomy  of  Melancholy. 

I  HAVE  often  wondered  at  the  extreme  fecundity  of  the 
press,  and  how  it  comes  to  pass  that  so  many  heads,  on 
which  Nature  seems  to  have  inflicted  the  curse  of  barren 
ness,  yet  teem  with  voluminous  productions.  As  a  man 
travels  on,  however,  in  the  journey  of  life,  his  objects  of 
wonder  daily  diminish,  and  he  is  continually  finding  out 
some  very  simple  cause  for  some  greater  matter  of  marvel. 
Thus  have  I  chanced,  in  my  peregrinations  about  this  great 
metropolis,  to  blunder  upon  a  scene  which  unfolded  to  me 
some  of  the  mysteries  of  the  book-making  craft,  and  at 
once  put  an  end  to  my  astonishment. 

I  was  one  summer's  day  loitering  through  the  great  sa 
loons  of  the  British  Museum,  Avith  that  listlessness  with 
which  one  is  apt  to  saunter  about  a  room  in  warm  weather; 
sometimes  lolling  over  the  glass  cases  of  minerals,  some 
times  studying  the  hieroglyphics  on  an  Egyptian  mummy, 
and  sometimes  trying,  with  nearly  equal  success,  to  com 
prehend  the  allegorical  paintings  on  the  lofty  ceilings. 
While  I  was  gazing  about  in  this  idle  way,  my  attention 
was  attracted  to  a  distant  floor,  at  the  end  of  a  suite  of 
apartments.  It  was  closed,  but  every  now  and  then  it 
would  open,  and  some  strange-favored  being,  generally 
clothed  in  black,  would  steal  forth,  and  glide  through  the 
rooms,  without  noticing  any  of  the  surrounding  objects. 
There  was  an  air  of  mystery  about  this  that  piqued  my 
languid  curiosity,  and  I  determined  to  attempt  the  passage 
of  that  strait,  and  to  explore  the  unknown  regions  that 
lay  beyond.  The  door  yielded  to  my  hand,  with  all  that 
facility  with  which  the  portals  of  enchanted  castles  yield  to 
the  adventurous  knight-errant.  I  found  myself  in  a  spa- 


74  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

cious  chamber,  surrounded  with  great  cases  of  venerable 
books.  Above  the  cases,  and  just  under  the  cornice,  were] 
arranged  a  great  number  of  black-looking  portraits  of  an- j 
cient  authors.  About  the  room  were  placed  long  tables,^ 
with  stands  for  reading  and  writing,  at  which  sat  manj« 
pale,  cadaverous  personages,  poring  intently  over  dusty  vol-| 
umes,  rummaging  among  mouldy  manuscripts,  and  taking; 
copious  notes  of  their  contents.  The  most  hushed  stillnessjj 
reigned  through  this  mysterious  apartment,  excepting  that] 
you  might  hear  tbe  racing  of  pens  over  sheets  of  paper,  or,  j 
occasionally,  the  deep  sigh  of  one  of  these  sages,  as  he] 
shifted  bis  position  to  turn  over  the  page^of  an  old  folio;.- 
doubtless  arising  from  that  hollowness  and  flatulency  inci-1 
dent  to  learned  research. 

Now  and  then  one  of  these  personages  would  write  some-j 
thing  on  a  small  slip  of  paper,  and  ring  a  bell,  whereupon] 
a  familiar  would  appear,  take  the  paper  in  profound] 
silence,  glide  out  of  the  room,  and  return  shortly  loaded] 
with  ponderous  tomes,  upon  which  the  other  would  fall,? 
tooth  and  nail,  with  famished  voracity.  I  had  no  longer  a] 
doubt  that  I  had  happened  upon  a  body  of  rnagi,  deeply! 
engaged  in  the  study  of  occult  sciences.  The  scene  re-i 
minded  me  of  an  old  Arabian  tale  of  a  philosopher,  who! 
was  shut  up  in  an  enchanted  library,  in  the  bosom  of  a; 
mountain,  that  opened  only  once  a  year;  where  he  made 
the  spirits  of  the  place  obey  his  commands,  and  bring  him; 
books  of  all  kinds  of  dark  knowledge,  so  that  at  the  end  of 
the  year,  when  the  .magic  portal  once  more-  swung  open  on] 
its  hinges,  he  issued  forth  so  versed  in  forbidden  lore  as  toi 
be  able  to  soar  above  the  heads  of  the  multitude,  and  toj 
control  the  powers  of  Nature. 

My  curiosity  being  now  fully  aroused,  I  whispered  to  one 
of  the  familiars,  as  he  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  and 
begged  an  interpretation  of  the  strange  scene  before  me. 
A  few  words  were  sufficient  for  the  purpose: — I  found  that;; 
these   mysterious   personages,  whom    I   had   mistaken  for] 
magi,  were  principally  authors,  and  were  in  the  very  act  of  ] 
manufacturing  books.     I  was,  in  fact,  in  the  reading-room  1 
of  the  great  British  Library,  an  immense  collection  of  voJ-| 
umes  of  all  ages  and  languages,  many  of  which  are  now 
forgotten,  and  most  of  which  are  seldom  read.     To  these  j 
sequestered  pools  of  obsolete  literature,  therefore,  do  irwny } 


THE  ART  OF  BOOK-MAKING.  75 

modern  authors  repair,  and  draw  buckets  full  of  classic 
lore  or  "pure  English,  undefiled,"  wherewith  to  swell  their 
own  scanty  rills  of  thought. 

Being  now  in  possession  of  the  secret,  I  sat  down  in  a 
corner,  and  watched  the  process  of  this  book  manufactory. 
I  noticed  one  lean,  bilious-looking  wight,  who  sought  none 
but  the  most  worm-eaten  volumes,  printed  in  black-letter. 
He  was  evidently  constructing  some  work  of  profound  eru 
dition,  that  would  be  purchased  by  every  man  who  wished 
to  be  thought  learned,  placed  upon  a  conspicuous  shelf  of 
his  library,  or  laid  open  upon  his  table — but  never  read. 
I  observed  him,  now  and  then,  draw  a  large  fragment  of 
biscuit  out  of  his  pocket,  and  gnaw;  whether  it  was  his 
dinner,  or  whether  he  was  endeavoring  to  keep  off  that  ex 
haustion  of  the  stomach  produced  by  much  pondering 
over  dry  works,  I  leave  to  harder  students  than  myself  to 
determine. 

There  was  one  dapper  little  gentleman  in  bright-colored 
clothes,  with  a  chirping,  gossiping  expression  of  counte 
nance,  who  had  all  the  appearance  of  an  author  on  good 
terms  with  his  bookseller.  After  considering  him  attent 
ively,  I  recognized  in  him  a  diligent  getter-up  of  miscella 
neous  works,  which  bustled  off  well  with  the  trade.  I  was 
curious  to  see  how  he  manufactured  his  wares.  He  made 
more  show  and  stir  of  business  than  any  of  the  others; 
dipping  into  various  books,  fluttering  over  the  leaves  of 
manuscripts,  taking  a  morsel  out  of  one,  a  morsel  out  of 
another,  "line  upon  line,  precept  upon  precept,  here  a 
little  and  there  a  little."  The  contents  of  his  book  seemed 
to  be  as  heterogeneous  as  those  of  the  witches'  caldron  in 
Macbeth.  It  was  here  a  finger  and  there  a  thumb,  toe  of 
frog  and  blind  worm's  sting,  with  his  own  gossip  poured 
in  like  "baboon's  blood,"  to  make  the  medley  "slab  and 
good." 

After  all,  thought  I,  may  not  this  pilfering  disposition  be 
implanted  in  authors  for  wise  purposes?  may  it  not  be  the 
way  in  which  Providence  has  taken  care  that  the  seeds  of 
knowledge  and  wisdom  shall  be  preserved  from  age  to  age, 
in  spite  of  the  inevitable  decay  of  the  works  in  which  they 
were  first  produced?  We  see  that  Nature  has  wisely,  though 
whimsically,  provided  for  the  conveyance  of  seeds  from 
clime  to  clime,  in  the  maws  of  certain  birds;  so  that  am- 


76  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

mals,  which,  in  themselves,  are  little  better  than  carrion,  1 
and  apparently  the  lawless  plunderers  of  the  orchard  and  I 
the  cornfield,  are,  in  fact,  Nature's  carriers  to  disperse  and  i 
perpetuate  her  blessings.  In  like  manner,  the  beauties  and  1 
fine  thoughts  of  ancient  and  obsolete  writers  are  caught  upl 
by  these  nights  of  predatory  authors,  and  cast  forth,  again  | 
to  flourish  and  bear  fruit  in  a  remote  and  distant  tract  of  I 
time.  Many  of  their  works,  also,  undergo  a  kind  of  me-  j 
tempsychosis,  and  spring  up  under  new  forms.  What  was! 
formerly  a  ponderous  history,  revives  in  the  shape  of  a  ro-  4 
mance — an  old  legend  changes  into  a  modern  play — and  all 
sober  philosophical  treatise  furnishes  the  body  for  a  whole  \ 
series  of  bouncing  and  sparkling  essays.  Thus  it  is  in  the  | 
clearing  of  our  American  woodlands;  where  we  burn  down 
a  forest  of  stately  pines,  a  progeny  of  dwarf  oaks  start  up  J 
in  their  place;  and  we  never  see  the  prostrate  trunk  of  a  I 
tree,  mouldering  into  soil,  but  it  gives  birth  to  a  whole  | 
tribe  of  fungi. 

Let  us  not,  then,  lament  over  the  decay  and  oblivion  into  1 
which  ancient  writers  descend;  they  do  not  submit  to  the  1 
great  law  of  Nature,  which  declares  that  all  sublunary  I 
shapes  of  matter  shall  be  limited  in  their  duration,  but  1 
which  decrees,  also,  that  their  elements  shall  never  perish.  | 
Generation  after  generation,  both  in  animal  and  vegetable  1 
life,  passes  away,  but  the  vital  principle  is  transmitted  to  I 
posterity,  and  the  species  continue  to  nourish.  Thus,  also,  1 
do  authors  beget  authors,  and  having  produced  a  numerous  | 
progeny,  in  a  good  old  age  they  sleep  with  their  fathers;  1 
that  is  to  say,  with  the  authors  who  preceded  them — and  1 
from  whom  they  had  stolen. 

Whilst  I  was  indulging  in  these  rambling  fancies  I  had  m 
leaned  my  head  against  a  pile  of  reverend  folios.  Whether  j 
it  was  owing  to  the  soporific  emanations  from  these  works;  v 
or  to  the  profound  quiet  of  the  room;  or  to  the  lassitude  I 
arising  from  much  wandering;  or  to  an  unlucky  habit  of  1 
napping  at  improper  times  and  places,  with  which  I  am  m 
grievously  afflicted,  so  it  was,  that  I  fell  into  a  doze.  Still,  I 
however,  my  imagination  continued  busy,  and  indeed  the  i 
same  scene  remained  before  my  mind's  eye,  only  a  little  1 
changed  in  some  of  the  details.  I  dreamt  that  the  cham-  4 
ber  was  still  decorated  with  the  portraits  of  ancient  authors,  3 
but  the  number  was  increased.  The  long  tables  had  dis-  I 


THE  ART  OF  BOOK-MAKING.  tf 

appeared,  and  in  place  of  the  sage  magi,  I  beheld  a  ragged, 
threadbare  throng,  such  as  may  be  seen  plying  about  the 
great  repository  of  cast-off  clothes,  Monmouth  street. 
Whenever  they  seized  upon  a  book,  by  one  of  those  incon 
gruities  common  to  dreams,  rnethought  it  turned  into  a 
garment  of  foreign  or  antique  fashion,  with  which  they 
proceeded  to  equip  themselves.  I  noticed,  however,  that 
no  one  pretended  to  clothe  himself  from  any  particular 
suit,  but  took  a  sleeve  from  one,  a  cape  from  another,  a 
skirt  from  a  third,  thus  decking  himself  out  piecemeal, 
while  some  of  his  original  rags  would  peep  out  from  among 
his  borrowed  finery. 

There  was  a  portly,  rosy,  well-fed  person,  whom  I  ob 
served  ogling  several  mouldy  polemical  writers  through  an 
eye-glass.  He  soon  contrived  to  slip  on  the  voluminous 
mantle  of  one  of  the  old  fathers,  and  having  purloined  the 
gray  beard  of  another,  endeavored  to  look  exceedingly 
wise;  but  the  smirking  commonplace  of  his  countenance 
set  at  naught  all  the  trappings  of  wisdom.  One  sickly- 
looking  gentleman  was  busied  embroidering  a  very  flimsy 
garment  with  gold  thread  drawn  out  of  several  old  court- 
dresses  of  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  Another  had 
trimmed  himself  magnificently  from  an  illuminated  manu 
script,  had  stuck  a  nosegay  in  his  bosom,  culled  from 
"  The  Paradise  of  Dainty  Devices/'  and  having  put  Sir 
Philip  Sidney's  hat  on  one  side  of  his  head,  strutted  off 
with  an  exquisite  air  of  vulgar  elegance.  A  third,  who  was 
but  of  puny  dimensions,  had  bolstered  himself  out  bravely 
with  the  spoils  from  several  obscure  tracts  of  philosophy,  so 
that  he  had  a  very  imposing  front,  but  he  was  lament 
ably  tattered  in  rear,  and  I  perceived  that  he  had  patched 
his  small-clothes  with  scraps  of  parchment  from  a  Latin 
author. 

There  were  some  well-dressed  gentlemen,  it  is  true,  who 
only  helped  themselves  to  a  gem  or  so,  which  sparkled 
among  their  own  ornaments,  without  eclipsing  them. 
Some,  too,  seemed  to  contemplate  the  costumes  of  the  old 
writers,  merely  to  imbibe  their  principles  of  taste,  and  to 
catch  their  air  and  spirit ;  but  I  grieve  to  say  that  too 
many  were  apt  to  array  themselves,  from  top  to  toe,  in  the 
patch-work  manner  I  have  mentioned.  I  should  not  omit 
to  speak  of  one  genius,  in  drab  breeches  and  gaiters,  and 


78  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

an  Arcadian  hat,  who  had  a  violent  propensity  to  the  pas 
toral,  but  whose  rural  wanderings  had  been  confined  to  the 
classic  haunts  of  Primrose  Hill,  and  the  solitudes  of  the 
Begent's  Park.  He  had  decked  himself  in  wreaths  and 
ribbons  from  all  the  old  pastoral  poets,  and  hanging  his 
head  on  one  side,  went  about  with  a  fantastical,  lacka 
daisical  air,  "babbling  about  green  fields."  But  the  per 
sonage  that  most  struck  my  attention  was  a  pragmatical 
old  gentleman,  in  clerical  robes,  with  a  remarkably  large 
and  square,  but  bald  head.  He  entered  the  room  wheezing 
and  puffing,  elbowed  his  way  through  the  throng,  with  a 
look  of  sturdy  self-confidence,  and  having  laid  hands  upon 
a  thick  Greek  quarto,  clapped  it  upon  his  head,  and  swept 
majestically  away  in  a  formidable  frizzled  wig. 

In  the  height  of  this  literary  masquerade,  a  cry  suddenly 
resounded  from  every  side  of  "  thieves!  thieves!"  I  looked, 
and  lo!  the  portraits  about  the  walls  became  animated! 
The  old  authors  thrust  out  first  a  hand,  then  a  shoulder, 
from  the  canvas,  looked  down  curiously,  for  an  instant, 
upon  the  motley  throng,  and  then  descended,  with  fury  in 
their  eyes,  to  claim  their  rifled  property.  The  scene  of 
scampering  and  hubbub  that  ensued  baffles  all  description. 
The  unhappy  culprits  endeavored  in  vain  to  escape  with 
their  plunder.  On  one  side  might  be  seen  half-a-dozen  old 
monks,  stripping  a  modern  professor;  on  another,  there 
was  sad  devastation  carried  into  the  ranks  of  modern  dra 
matic  writers.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  side  by  side,  raged 
round  the  field  like  Castor  and  Pollux,  and  sturdy  Ben 
Jonson  enacted  more  wonders  than  when  a  volunteer  with 
the  army  in  Flanders.  As  to  the  dapper  little  compiler  of 
farragos,  mentioned  some  time  since,  he  had  arrayed  him 
self  in  as  many  patches  and  colors  as  Harlequin,  and  there 
was  as  fierce  a  contention  of  claimants  about  him  as  about 
the  dead  body  of  Patroclus.  I  was  grieved  to  see  many 
men,  whom  I  had  been  accustomed  to  look  upon  with  awe 
and  reverence,  fain  to  steal  off  with  scare  a  rag  to  cover 
their  nakedness.  Just  then  my  eye  was  caught  by  the 
pragmatical  old  gentleman  in  the  Greek  grizzled  wig,  who 
was  scrambling  away  in  sore  affright  with  half  a  score  of 
authors  in  full  cry  after  him.  They  were  close  upon  his 
haunches;  in  a  twinkling  off  went  his  wig;  at  every  turn 
some  strip  of  raiment  was  peeled  away;  until  in  a  few  mo- 


THE  ART  OF  BOOK-MAKING.  79 

ments,  from  his  domineering  pomp,  he  shrunk  into  a  little 
pursy,  "chopp'd  bald  shot,"  and  made  his  exit  with  only  a 
few  tags  and  rags  fluttering  at  his  back. 

There  was  something  so  ludicrous  in  the  catastrope  of 
this  learned  Theban,  that  I  burst  into  an  immoderate  fit  of 
laughter,  which  broke  the  whole  illusion.  The  tumult  and 
the  scuffle  were  at  an  end.  The  chamber  resumed  its  usual 
appearance.  The  old  authors  shrunk  back  into  their 
picture-frames,  and  hung  in  shadowy  solemnity  along  the 
walls.  In  short,  I  found  myself  wide  awake  in  my  corner, 
with  the  whole  assemblage  of  bookworms  gazing  at  me 
with  astonishment.  Nothing  of  the  dream  had  been  real 
but  my  burst  of  laughter,  a  sound  never  before  heard  in 
that  grave  sanctuary,  and  so  abhorrent  to  the  ears  of 
wisdom  as  to  electrify  the  fraternity. 

The  librarian  now  stepped  up  to  me,  and  demanded 
whether  I  had  a  card  of  admission.  At  first  I  did  not 
comprehend  him,  but  1  soon  found  that  the  library  was  a 
kind  of  literary  "preserve/'  subject  to  game  laws,  and  that 
no  one  must  presume  to  hunt  there  without  special  license 
and  permission.  In  a  word,  I  stood  convicted  of  being  an 
arrant  poacher,  and  was  glad  to  make  a  precipitate  retreat, 
lest  I  should  have  a  whole  pack  of  authors  let  loose  upon 
mt. 


80  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


A  EOYAL  POET. 

Though  your  body  be  confined 

And  soft  love  a  prisoner  bound, 
Yet  the  beauty  of  your  mind 

Neither  check  nor  chain  hath  found. 
Look  out  nobly,  then,  and  dare 
Even  the  fetters  that  you  wear. 

FLETCHER. 

ON  a  soft  sunny  morning  in  the  genial  month  of  May,  I 
made  an  excursion  to  Windsor  Castle.  It  is  a  place  full  of 
storied  and  poetical  associations.  The  very  external  aspect 
of  the  proud  old  pile  is  enough  to  inspire  high  thought. 
It  rears  its  irregular  walls  and  massive  towers,  like  a  mural 
crown  around  the  brow  of  a  lofty  ridge,  waves  its  royal 
banner  in  the  clouds,  and  looks  down  with  a  lordly  air 
upon  the  surrounding  world. 

On  this  morning,  the  weather  was  of  this  voluptuous 
vernal  kind  which  calls  forth  all  the  latent  romance  of  a 
man's  temperament,  filling  his  mind  with  music,  and  dis 
posing  him  to  quote  poetry  and  dream  of  beauty.  In 
wandering  through  the  magnificent  saloons  and  long  echo 
ing  galleries  of  the  castle,  I  passed  with  indifference  by 
whole  rows  of  portraits  of  warriors  and  statesmen,  but 
lingered  in  the  chamber  where  hang  the  likenesses  of  the 
beauties  that  graced  the  gay  court  of  Charles  the  Second; 
and  as  I  gazed  upon  them,  depicted  with  amorous  half- 
dishevelled  tresses,  and  the  sleepy  eye  of  love,  I  blessed  the 
pencil  of  Sir  Peter  Lely,  which  had  thus  enabled  me  to 
bask  in  the  reflected  rays  of  beauty.  In  traversing  also  the 
"large  green  courts,"  with  sunshine  beaming  on  the  gray 
walls  and  glancing  along  the  velvet  turf,  my  mind  was  en 
grossed  with  the  image  of  the  tender,  the  gallant,  but  hap 
less  Surrey,  and  his  account  of  his  loiterings  about  them  in 
his  stripling  days,  when  enamored  of  the  Lady  Geraldiue — 

"  With  eyes  cast  up  unto  the  maiden's  tower, 
With  easie  sighs,  such  as  men  draw  in  love." 


A  ROYAL  POET.  81 

In  this  mood  of  mere  poetical  susceptibility}  I  visitep 
he  ancient  keep  of  the  castle,  where  James  the  First  of 
Scotland,  the  pride  and  theme  of  Scottish  poets  and  his- 
orians,  was  for  many  years  of  his  youth  detained  a  prisoner 
»f  state.  It  is  a  large  gray  tower,  that  has  stood  the  brunt 
>f  ages,  and  is  still  in  good  preservation.  It  stands  on  a 
nound  which  elevates  it  above  the  other  parts  of  the 
astle,  and  a  great  flight  of  steps  leads  to  the  interior.  In 
he  armory,  which  is  a  Gothic  hall,  furnished  with  weapons 
if  various  kinds  and  ages,  I  was  shown  a  coat  of  armor 
langing  against  the  wall,  which  I  was  told  had  once  be- 
onged  to  James.  From  hence  I  was  conducted  up  a  stair- 
;ase  to  a  suite  of  apartments  of  faded  magnificence,  hung 
vith  storied  tapestry,  which  formed  his  prison,  and  the 
cene  of  that  passionate  and  fanciful  amour,  which  has 
voven  into  the  web  of  his  story  the  magical  hues  of  poetry 
mil  fiction. 

The  whole  history  of  this  amiable  but  unfortunate  prince 
s  highly  romantic.  At  the  tender  age  of  eleven,  he  was 
lent  from  his  home  by  his  father,  Robert  III.,  and  destined 
'or  the  French  court,  to  be  reared  under  the  eye  of  the 
French  monarch,  secure  from  the  treachery  and  danger 
;hat  surrounded  the  royal  house  of  Scotland.  It  was  his 
nishap,  in  the  course  of  his  voyage,  to  fall  into  the  hands 
)f  the  English,  and  he  was  detained  a  prisoner  by  Henry 
"V.,  notwithstanding  that  a  truce  existed  between  the  two 
countries. 

The  intelligence  of  his  capture,  coming  in  the  train  of 
•nany  sorrows  and  disasters,  proved  fatal  to  his  unhappy 
lather. 

"  The  news,"  we  are  told,  "  was  brought  to  him  while  at 
dipper,  and  did  so  overwhelm  him  with  grief,  that  he  was 
ilmost  ready  to  give  up  the  ghost  into  the  hands  of  the  ser- 
ants  that  attended  him.  But  being  carried  to  his  bed 
chamber,  he  abstained  from  all  food,  and  in  three  days 
lied  of  hunger  and  grief,  at  Rothesay."  * 

James  was  detained  in  captivity  about  eighteen  years; 
3ut,  though  deprived  of  personal  liberty,  he  was  treated 
vith  the  respect  due  to  his  rank.  Care  was  taken  to  in 
struct  him  in  all  the  branches  of  useful  knowledge  culti- 
rated  at  that  period,  and  to  give  him  those  mental  and  per- 


*  Buchanan. 


82  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

sonal  accomplishments  deemed  proper  for  a  prince.  Per 
haps  in  this  respect,  his  imprisonment  was  an  advantage,: 
as  it  enabled  him  to  apply  himself  the  more  exclusively  to 
his  improvements,  and  quietly  to  imbibe  that  rich  fund  ojj 
knowledge,  and  to  cherish  those  elegant  tastes,  which  have 
given  siach  a  lustre  to  his  memory.  The  picture  drawn  of* 
him  in  early  life,  by  the  Scottish  historians,  is  highly  cap 
tivating,  and  seems  rather  the  description  of  a  hero  of  ro 
mance,  than  of  a  character  in  real  history.  He  was  well- 
learnt,  we  are  told,  "  to  fight  with  the  sword,  to  joust,  to 
tournay,  to  wrestle,  to  sing  and  dance;  he  was  an  expert 
mediciner,  right  crafty  in  playing  both  of  lute  and  harp, 
and  sundry  other  instruments  of  music,  and  was  expert  in 
grammar,  oratory,  and  poetry."* 

With  this  combination  of  manly  and  delicate  accomplish 
ments,  fitting  him  to  shine  both  in  active  and  elegant  life,, 
and  calculated  to  give  him  an  intense  relish  for  joyous  ex 
istence,  it  must  have  been  a  severe  trial,  in  an  age  of  bustle 
and  chivalry,  to  pass  the  spring-time  of  his  years  in  monot 
onous  captivity.  It  was  the  good  fortune  of  James,  how 
ever,  to  be  gifted  with  a  powerful  poetic  fancy,  and  to  be 
visited  in  his  prison  by  the  choicest  inspirations  of  the 
muse.  Some  minds  corrode,  and  grow  inactive,  under  the 
loss  of  personal  liberty;  others  grow  morbid  and  irritable; 
but  it  is  the  nature  of  the  poet  to  become  tender  and  imag 
inative  in  the  loneliness  of  confinement.  He  banquets 
upon  the  honey  of  his  own  thoughts,  and,  like  the  captive  •• 
bird,  pours  forth  his  soul  in  melody. 

Have  you  not  seen  the  nightingale 

A  pilgrim  coop'd  into  a  cage, 
How  doth  she  chant  her  wonted  tale, 

In  that  her  lonely  hermitage! 

Even  there  her  charming  melody  doth  prove 
That  all  her  boughs  are  trees,  her  cage  a  grove,  f 

Indeed,  it  is  the  divine  attribute  of  the  imagination  that 
it  is  irrepressible,  unconfinable;  that  when  the  real  world  ia  ; 
shut  out,  it  can  create  a  world  for  itself,  and,  with  necro-  . 
mantic  power,  can  conjure  up  glorious  shapes  and  forms, 
and  brilliant  visions,  to  make  solitude  populous,  and  irradi 
ate  the  gloom  of  the  dungeon.      Such  was  the  world  of 

*  Ballenden's  translation  of  Hector  Boyce.       t  Koger  L'Estrange. 


A  ROYAL  POST.  83 

)omp  and  pageant  that  lived  round  Tasso  in  his  dismal  cell 
Lt  Ferrara,  when  he  conceived  the  splendid  scenes  of  his 
rerusalem;  and  we  may  conceive  the  "King's  Quair,"* 
:omposed  by  James  during  his  captivity  at  Windsor,  as  an- 
>ther  of  those  beautiful  breakings  forth  of  the  soul  from 
he  restraint  and  gloom  of  the  prison-house. 

The  subject  of  his  poem  is  his  love  for  the  Lady  Jane 
3eaufort,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Somerset,  and  a  princess 
)f  the  blood-royal  of  England,  of  whom  he  became  enarn- 
)red  in  the  course  of  his  captivity.  What  gives  it  pecu- 
iar  value,  is,  that  it  may  be  considered  a  transcript  of  the 
•oyal  bard's  true  feelings,  and  the  story  of  his  real  loves  and 
fortunes.  It  is  not  often  that  sovereigns  write  poetry,  or 
hat  poets  deal  in  fact.  It  is  gratifying  to  the  pride  of  a 
3ommon  man  to  find  a  monarch  thus  suing,  as  it  were,  for 
id  mission  into  his  closet,  and  seeking  to  win  his  favor  by 
id  ministering  to  his  pleasures.  It  is  a  proof  of  the  honest 
equality  of  intellectual  competition,  which  strips  off  all 
he  trappings  of  factitious  dignity,  brings  the  candidate 
lown  to  a  level  with  his  fellow-men,  and  obliges  him 
;o  depend  on  his  own  native  powers  for  distinction. 
[t  is  curious,  too,  to  get  all  the  history  of  a  monarch's 
icart,  and  to  find  the  simple  affections  of  human  na- 
ure  throbbing  under  the  ermine.  But  James  had  learnt 
;o  be  a  poet  before  he  was  a  king;  he  was  schooled  in  ad 
versity,  and  reared  in  the  company  of  his  own  thoughts. 
Monarchs  have  seldom  time  to  parley  with  their  hearts,  or 
;o  meditate  their  minds  into  poetry;  and  had  James  been 
brought  up  amidst  the  adulation  and  gayety  of  a  court,  we 
should  never,  in  all  probability,  have  had  such  a  poem  as 
the  Quair. 

I  have  been  particularly  interested  by  those  parts  of  the 
poem  which  breathe  his  immediate  thoughts  concerning 
tiis  situation,  or  which  are  connected  with  the  apartment 
in  the  Tower.  They  have  thus  a  personal  and  local  charm, 
and  are  given  with  such  circumstantial  truth  as  to  make 
the  reader  present  with  the  captive  in  his  prison,  and  the 
companion  of  his  meditations. 

Such  is  the  account  which  he  gives  of  his  weariness  of 
spirit,  and  of  the  incident  that  first  suggested  the  idea  of 
writing  the  poem.  It  was  the  still  midwatch  of  a  clear 


*  Quair,  an  old  term  for  book. 


84  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

moonlight  night;  the  stars,  he  says,  were  twinkling  as  t 
fire  in  the  high  vault  of  heaven,  and  "Cynthia  ringing  h 
golden  locks  in  Aquarius" — he  lay  in  bed  wakeful  ai 
restless,  and  took  a  book  to  beguile  the  tedious  houi 
The  book  he  chose  was  Boetius'  Consolations  of  Philos 
phy,  a  work  popular  among  the  writers  of  that  day,  ai 
which  had  been  translated  by  his  great  prototype  Cliuuce 
From  the  high  euiogium  in  which  he  indulges,  it  is  e\ 
dent  this  was  one  of  his  favorite  volumes  while  in  prisp: 
and  indeed,  it  is  an  admirable  text-book  for  meditatic 
under  adversity.  It  is  the  legacy  of  a  noble  and  endurir 
spirit,  purified  by  sorrow  and  suffering,  bequeathing  to  i 
successors  in  calamity  the  maxims  of  sweet  morality,  an 
the  trains  of  eloquent  but  simple  reasoning,  by  which 
was  enabled  to  bear  up  against  the  various  ills  of  life, 
is  a  talisman  which  the  unfortunate  may  treasure  up  in  h 
bosom,  or,  like  the  good  King  James,  lay  upon  his  night! 
pillow. 

After  closing  the  volume  he  turns  its  contents,  over  i 
his  mind,  and  gradually  falls  into  a  fit  of  musing  on  th 
fickleness  of  fortune,  the  vicissitudes  of  his  own  life,  an 
the  evils  that  had  overtaken  him  even  in  his  tender  youth 
Suddenly  he  hears  the  bell  ringing  to  matins,  but  its  soun 
chiming  in  with  his  melancholy  fancies,  seems  to  him  lik 
a  voice  exhorting  him  to  write  his  story.  In  the  spirit  c 
poetic  errantry,  he  determines  to  comply  with  this  inti 
mation;  he  therefore  takes  pen  in  hand,  makes  with  it| 
sign  of  the  cross,  to  implore  a  benediction,  and  sallies  fort! 
into  the  fairy  land  of  poetry.  There  is  something  ei 
tremely  fanciful  in  all  this,  and  it  is  interesting,  as  furnish 
ing  a  striking  and  beautiful  instance  of  the  simple  maiine 
in  which  whole  trains  of  poetical  thought  are  sometime.' 
awakened,  and  literary  enterprises  suggested  to  the  mind. 

In  the  course  of  his  poem,  he  more  than  once  bewails  the 
peculiar  hardness  of  his  fate,  thus  doomed  to  lonely  anq 
inactive  life,  and  shut  up  from  the  freedom  and  pleasure 
of  the  world,  in  which  the  meanest  animal  indulges  unre 
strained.  There  is  a  sweetness,  however,  in  his  very  com; 
plaints;  they  are  the  lamentations  of  an  amiable  and  socia] 
spirit,  at  being  denied  the  indulgence  of  its  kind  and 
generous  propensities;  there  is  nothing  in  them  harsh  or 
exaggerated;  they  flow  with  a  natural  and  touching  pathos, 


A  ROYAL  POET.  85 

and  are  perhaps  rendered  more  touching  by  their  simple 
brevity.  They  contrast  finely  with  those  elaborate  and 
iterated  repinings  which  we  sometimes  meet  with  in  poetry, 
the  effusions  of  morbid  minds,  sickening  under  miseries  of 
their  own  creating,  and  venting  their  bitterness  upon  an 
unoffending  world.  James  speaks  of  his  privations  with 
acute  sensibility;  but  having  mentioned  them,  passes  on, 
as  if  his  manly  mind  disdained  to  brood  over  unavoidable 
calamities.  When  such  a  spirit  breaks  forth  into  com 
plaint,  however  brief,  we  are  aware  how  great  must  be  the 
suffering  that  extorts  the  murmur.  AVe  sympathize  with 
James,  a  romantic,  active  and  accomplished  prince, 
cut  off  in  the  lustihood  of  youth  from  all  the  enter 
prise,  the  noble  uses  and  vigorous  delights  of  life,  as 
we  do  with  Milton,  alive  to  all  the  beauties  of  nature  and 
glories  of  art,  when  he  breathes  forth  brief  but  deep-toned 
lamentations  over  his  perpetual  blindness. 

Had  not  James  evinced  a  deficiency  of  poetic  artifice,  we 
might  almost  have  suspected  that  these  lowerings  of  gloomy 
reflection  were  meant  as  preparative  to  the  brightest  scene 
of  his  story,  and  to  contrast  with  that  effulgence  of  light 
and  loveliness,  that  exhilarating  accompaniment  of  bird, 
and  song,  and  foliage,  and  flower,  and  all  the  revel  of  the 
year,  with  which  he  ushers  in  the  lady  of  his  heart.  It  is 
this  scene  in  particular  which  throws  all  the  magic  of  ro 
mance  about  the  old  castle  keep.  He  had  risen,  he  says, 
at  day-break,  according  to  custom,  to  escape  from  the 
dreary  meditations  of  a  sleepless  pillow.  "  Bewailing  in 
his  chamber  thus  alone,"  despairing  of  all  joy  and  remedy, 
"  for,  tired  of  thought,  and  wo-begone,"  he  had  wandered 
to  the  window  to  indulge  the  captive's  miserable  solace  of 
gazing  wistfully  upon  the  world  from  which  he  is  excluded. 
The  window  looked  forth  upon  a  small  garden  which  lay 
at  the  foot  of  the  tower.  It  was  a  quiet,  sheltered  spot, 
adorned  with  arbors  and  green  alleys,  and  protected  from 
the  passing  gaze  by  trees  and  hawthorn  hedges. 

Now  was  there  made  fast  by  the  tower's  wall 

A  garden  faire,  and  in  the  corners  set 
An  arbour  green  with  wandis  long  and  small 

Railed  about,  and  sso  with  leaves  beset 
Was  all  the  place,  and  hawthorn  hedges  knet 

That  lyf  *  was  none,  walkyng  there  forbye 

That  might  within  scarce  any  wight  espye. 

person. 


86  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

So  thick  the  branches  and  the  leves  grene, 
Beshaded  all  the  alleys  that  there  were, 

And  midst  of  every  arbour  might  be  seen, 
The  sharpe,  grene,  swete  juniper, 

Growing  so  faire  with  branches  here  and  there, 
That  as  it  seemed  to  a  lyf  without, 
The  boughs  did  spread  the  arbour  all  about. 

And  on  the  small  green  twistis  *  set 

The  lytel  swete  nyghtingales,  and  sung 

So  loud  and  clere,  the  hymnis  consecrate 
Of  lovis  use,  now  soft,  now  loud  among, 

That  all  the  garden  and  the  wallis  rung 
Ryght  of  their  song — 

It  was  the  month  of  May,  when  everything  was  in  bloom, 
and  he  interprets  the  song  of  the  nightingale  into  language] 
of  his  enamored  feeling  : 

Worship  all  ye  that  lovers  be  this  May; 

For  of  your  bliss  the  kalends  are  begun, 
And  sing  with  us,  away,  winter,  away. 

Come,  summer,  come,  the  sweet  season  and  sun. 

As  he  gazes  on  the  scene,  and  listens  to  the  notes  of  the 
birds,  he  gradually  lapses  into  one  of  those  tender  and  im-j 
definable  reveries  which  fill  the  youthful  bosom  in  this  de-j 
licious  season.  He  wonders  what  this  love  may  be,  of] 
which  he  has  so  often  read,  aiid  which  thus  seems  breathedl 
forth  in  the  quickening  breath  of  May,  and  melting  all  na-i 
ture  into  ecstasy  and  song.  If  it  really  be  so  great  a  felic-J 
ity,  and  if  it  be  a  boon  thus  generally  dispensed  to  the  most] 
insignificant  of  beings,  why  is  he  alone  cut  off  from  its  eu-j 
joyments  ? 

Oft  would  I  think,  0  Lord,  what  may  this  be 

That  love  is  of  such  noble  myght  and  kyude  ? 
Loving  his  folk,  and  such  prosperitee, 
Is  it  of  him,  as  we  in  books  do  find; 
May  he  oure  liertes  setten  f  and  uubynd: 

Hath  he  upon  oure  hertes  such  maistrye? 
Or  is  all  this  but  feynit  fantasye? 

For  giff  he  be  of  so  grete  excellence 

That  he  of  every  wight  hath  care  and  charge, 

What  have  I  gilt  |  to  him,  or  done  offence, 
Tbat  I  am  thral'd  and  birdis  go  at  large? 

*  Tiristis,  small  boughs  or  twigs.  t  Setten,  incline. 

t  Gilt,  what  injury  have  I  done,  <fcc. 

NOTE.— The  language  of  the  quotations  is  generally  modernized. 


A  ROYAL  POET.  87 

In  the  midst  of  his  musing,  as  he  casts  his  eyes  ciovvn- 
irard,  he  beholds  "the  fairest  and  the  freshest  young 
loure  "  that  ever  he  had  seen.  It  is  the  lovely  Lady  Jane, 
talking  in  the  garden  to  enjoy  the  beauty  of  that  "fresh 
Vlay  morrowe."  Breaking  thus  suddenly  upon  his  sight  in 

moment  of  loneliness  and  excited  susceptibility,  she  at 
>nce  captivates  the  fancy  of  the  romantic  prince,  and  be- 
Icomes  the  object  of  his  wandering  wishes,  the  sovereign  of 
|his  ideal  worid. 

There  is  in  this  charming  scene  an  evident  resemblance 
[to  the  early  part  of  Chaucer's  Knight's  Tale,  where  Pala- 
mon  and  Arcite  fall  in  love  with  Emilia,  whom  they  see 
[walking  in  the  garden  of  their  prison.  Perhaps  the  simi 
larity  of  the  actual  fact  to  the  incident  which  he  had  read 
in  Chaucer  may  have  induced  James  to  dwell  on  it  in  his 
poem.  His  description  of  the  Lady  Jane  is  given  in  the 
picturesque  and  minute  manner  of  his  master,  and  being, 
doubtless,  taken  from  the  life,  is  a  perfect  portrait  of  a 
beauty  of  that  day.  He  dwells  with  the  fondness  of  a  lover 
on  every  article  of  her  apparel,  from  the  net  of  pearl, 
splendent  with  emeralds  and  sapphires,  that  confined  her 
golden  hair,  even  to  the  "  goodly  chaine  of  small  or- 
feverye"*  about  her  neck,  whereby  there  hung  a  ruby  in 
shape  of  a  heart,  that  seemed,  he  says,  like  a  spark  of  fire 
burning  upon  her  white  bosom.  Her  dress  of  white  tissue 
was  looped  up,  to  enable  her  to  walk  with  more  freedom. 
She  was  accompanied  by  two  female  attendants,  and  about 
her  sported  a  little  hound  decorated  with  bells,  probably  the 
small  Italian  hound,  of  exquisite  symmetry,  which  was  a 
parlor  favorite  and  pet  among  the  fashionable  dames  of 
ancient  times.  James  closes  his  description  by  a  burst  of 
general  eulogium; 

In  her  was  youth,  beauty  with  humble  port, 

Bountee,  richesse,  and  womanly  feature, 
God  better  knows  than  iny  pen  can  report, 

Wisdom,  largesse,f  estate,}:  and  cunning  §  sure. 

In  every  point  so  guided  her  measure, 

In  word,  in  deed,  in  shape,  in  countenance, 
That  nature  might  no  more  her  child  advance. 

*  Wrought  gold.  t  Largesse,  bounty, 

t  Estate,  dignity.  $  Cunning,  discretion. 


88  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

The  departure  of  the  Lady  Jane  from  the  garden  puts  ar 
end  to  this  transient  riot  of  the  heart.     With  her  departs] 
the  amorous  illusion  that  had  shed  a  temporary  charm  overj 
the  scene  of  his  captivity,  and  he  relapses  into  a  lonelines 
now  rendered  tenfold  more  intolerable  by   this   passing 
beam   of  unattainable  beauty.     Through   the    long    anc 
weary  day  he  repines  at  his  unhappy  lot,  and  when  evening 
approaches  and  Phoebus,  as  he  beautifully  expresses  it, 
"Bad  farewell  to  every  leaf  and  flower,"  he  still  lingers  at 
the  window,  and  laying  his  head  upon  the  cold  stone,  gives 
vent  to  a  mingled  flow  of  love  and  sorrow,  until  gradually 
lulled  by  the  mute  melancholy  of  the  twilight  hour,  he 
lapses,  '''half  sleeping,  half  swoon/'  into  a  vision,  whicl 
occupies  the  remainder  of  the  poem,  and  in  which  is  alle- 
gorically  shadowed  out  the  history  of  his  passion. 

When  he  wakes  from  his  trance,  he  rises  from  his  stony 
pillow,  and  pacing  his  apartment  full  of  dreary  reflections, 
questions  his  spirit  whither  it  has  been  wandering;  whether, 
indeed,  all  that  has  passed  before  his  dreaming  fancy  has- 
been  conjured  up  by  preceding  circumstances,  or  whether 
it  is  a  vision  intended  to  comfort  and  assure  him  in  his! 
despondency.     If  the  latter,  he  prays  that  some  token  may 
be  sent  to  confirm  the  promise  of  happier  days,  given  him 
in  his  slumbers. 

Suddenly  a  turtle-dove  of  the  purest  whiteness  comes 
flying  in  at  the  window,  and  alights  upon  his  hand,  bear 
ing  in  her  bill  a  branch  of  red  gilliflower,  on  the  leaves  of 
which  is  written  in  letters  of  gold  the  following  sentence: 

Awake!  awake!  I  bring,  lover,  I  bring 
The  newis  glad,  that  blissful  is  and  sure, 

Of  thy  comfort;  now  laugh,  and  play,  and  sing, 
For  in  the  heaven  decretit  is  thy  cure. 

He  receives  the  branch  with  mingled  hope  and  dread; 
reads  it  with  rapture,  and  this  he  says  was  the  first  token 
of  his  succeeding  happiness.  Whether  this  is  a  mere  poetic 
fiction,  or  whether  the  Lady  Jane  did  actually  send  him  a 
token  of  her  favor  in  this  romantic  way,  remains  to  be  de 
termined  according  to  the  fate  or  fancy  of  the  reader.  He 
concludes  his  poem  by  intimating  that  the  promise  conveyed 
in  the  vision  and  by  the  flower  is  fulfilled  by  his  being  re- 


A  ROYAL  POET.  89 

;ored  to  liberty,  and  made  happy  in  the  possession  of  the 
overeign  of  his  heart. 

Such  is  the  poetical  account  given  by  James  of  his  love 
dventures  in  Windsor  Castle.  How  much  of  it  is  absolute 
act,  and  how  much  the  embellishment  of  fancy,  it  is  fruit- 
ass  to  conjecture;  do  not,  however,  let  us  always  consider 
rhatever  is  romantic  as  incompatible  with  real  life,  but  let 
s  sometimes  take  a  poet  at  his  word.  I  have  noticed 
lerely  such  parts  of  the  poem  as  were  immediately  con- 
ected  with  the  tower,  and  have  passed  over  a  large  part 
/hich  was  in  the  allegorical  vein,  so  much  cultivated  in 
hat  day.  The  language  of  course  is  quaint  and  antiquated, 
o  that  the  beauty  of  many  of  its  golden  phrases  will  scarcely 
>e  perceived  at  the  present  day,  but  it  is  impossible  not  to 
>e  charmed  with  the  genuine  sentiment,  the  delightful 
rtlessness  and  urbanity,  which  prevail  throughout  it.  The 
escriptions  of  Nature,  too,  with  which  it  is  embellished, 
re  given  with  a  truth,  a  discrimination,  and  a  freshness, 
worthy  of  a  most  cultivated  period  of  the  arts. 

As  an  amatory  poem,  it  is  edifying,  in  these  days  of 
oarser  thinking,  to  notice  the  nature,  refinement,  and  ex- 
uisite  delicacy  which  pervade  it,  banishing  every  gross 
nought,  or  immodest  expression,  and  presenting  female 
oveliness  clothed  in  all  its  chivalrous  attributes  of  almost 
upernatural  purity  and  grace. 

James  flourished  nearly  about  the  time  of  Chaucer  and 
jower,  and  was  evidently  an  admirer  and  studier  of  their 
writings.  Indeed,  in  one  of  his  stanzas  he  acknowledges 
hem  as  his  masters,  and  in  some  parts  of  his  poem  we  find 
races  of  similarity  to  their  productions,  more  especially  to 
hose  of  Chaucer.  There  are  always,  however,  general  feat- 
ires  of  resemblance  in  the  works  of  contemporary  authors, 
vhich  are  not  so  much  borrowed  from  each  other  as  from 
he  times.  Writers,  like  bees,  toll  their  sweets  in  the  wide 
vorld;  they  incorporate  with  their  own  conceptions  the 
mecdotes  and  thoughts  which  are  current  in  society,  and 
/hus  each  generation  has  some  features  in  common,  char- 
icteristic  of  the  age  in  which  it  lives.  James  in  fact  be- 
ougs  to  one  of  the  most  brilliant  eras  of  our  literary  history, 
ind  establishes  the  claim  of  his  country  to  a  participation 
n  its  primitive  honors.  Whilst  a  small  cluster  of  English 
writers  are  constantly  cited  as  the  fathers  of  our  verse,  the 


90  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

name  of  their  great  Scottish  compeer  is  apt  to  be  passed ; 
over  in  silence;  but  he  is  evidently  worthy  of  being  en-i 
rolled  in  that  little  constellation  of  remote,  but  never-failing;* 
luminaries,  who  shine  in  the  highest  firmament  of  literature,^ 
and  who,  like  morning  stars,  sang  together  at  the  bright! 
dawning  of  British  poesy. 

Such  of  my  readers  as  may  not  be  familiar  with  Scottish! 
history  (though  the  manner  in  which  it  has  of  late  beeij 
woven  with  captivating  fiction  has  made  it  a  universal 
study),  may  be  curious  to  learn  something  of  the  subse-| 
quent  history  of  James,  and  the  fortunes  of  his  love.  Ilia 
passion  for  the  Lady  Jane,  as  it  was  the  solace  of  his  cap3 
tivity,  so  it  facilitated  his  release,  it  being  imagined  by  the! 
Court  that  a  connection  with  the  blood-royal  of  England^ 
would  attach  him  to  its  own  interests.  He  was  ultimately! 
restored  to  his  liberty  and  crown,  having  previously  es-l 
poused  the  Lady  Jane,  who  accompanied  him  to  Scotland,,] 
and  made  him  a  most  tender  and  devoted  wife. 

He  found  his  kingdom  in  great  confusion,  the  feudal 
chieftains  having  taken  advantage  of  the  troubles  and  ir«^ 
regularities  of  a  long  interregnum  to  strengthen  themselves 
in  their  possessions,  and  place  themselves  above  the  power 
of  the  laws.     James  sought  to  found  the  basis  of  his  power 
in  the  affections  of  his  people.     He  attached  the  lower  or 
ders  to  him  by  the  reformation  of  abuses,  the  temperate 
and  equable  administration  of  justice,  the  encouragement 
of  the  arts  of  peace,  and  the  promotion  of  everything  that,^ 
could  diffuse  comfort,  competency,  and  innocent  enjoy 
ment,  through  the  humblest  ranks  of  society.     He  mingled 
occasionally  among  the  common  people  in  disguise;  visited 
their  firesides;  entered  into  their  cares,  their  pursuits,  andj 
their  amusements;    informed   himself  of  the  mechanics^ 
arts,  and  how  they  could  best  be  patronized  and  improved;! 
and  was  thus  an  all-pervading  spirit,  watching  with  a  be 
nevolent  eye  over  the  meanest  of  his  subjects.     Having  in 
this  generous  manner  made  himself  strong  in  the  hearts  of 
the  common  people,  he  turned   himself  to  curb  the  power 
of  the  factious  nobility;  to  strip  them  of  those  dangerous 
immunities  which  they  had  usurped;  to  punish  such  as  hadj 
been  guilty  of  flagrant  offences;  and  to  bring  the  whole 
into  proper  obedience  to  the  crown.     For  some  time  they 
bore  this  with  outward  submission,  but  with  secret  irnna- 


A  ROYAL  POET.  91 

3nce  and  brooding  resentment.  A  conspiracy  was  at 
ngth  formed  against  his  life,  at  the  head  of  which  was 
s  own  uncle,  Robert  Stewart,  Earl  of  Athol,  who,  being 
o  old  himself  for  the  perpetration  of  the  deed  of  blood, 
stigated  his  grandson,  Sir  Robert  Stewart,  together  with 
r  Robert  Graham,  and  others  of  less  note,  to  commit  the 
;ed.  They  broke  into  his  bedchamber  at  the  Dominican 
nvent  near  Perth,  where  he  was  residing,  and  barbar- 
isly  murdered  him  by  oft-repeated  wounds.  His  faithful 
ieen,  rushing  to  throw  her  tender  body  between  him  and 
e  sword,  was  twice  wounded  in  the  ineffectual  attempt  to 
lield  him  from  the  assassin;  and  it  was  not  until  she  had 
3en  forcibly  torn  from  his  person  that  the  murder  was  ae- 
mplished. 

It  was  the  recollection  of  this  romantic  tale  of  former 
mes,  and  of  the  golden  little  poem  which  had  its  birth- 
ace  in  this  tower,  that  made  me  visit  the  old  pile  with 
ore  than  common  interest.     The  suit  of  armor  hanging 
p  in  the  hall,  richly  gilt  and  embellished,  as  if  to  figure  in 
he  tournay,  brought  the  image  of  the  gallant  and  roman- 
prince   vividly  before  my  imagination.     I  paced  the 
3serted  chambers  where  he  had  composed  his  poem  ;  I 
aned  upon  the  window,  and  endeavored  to  persuade  myself 
was  the  very  one  where  he  had  been  visited  by  his  vision  ; 
looked  out  upon  the  spot  where  he  had  first  seen  Lady 
ane.     It  was  the  same  genial  and  joyous  month  :  the  birds 
ere  again  vying  with  each  other  in  strains  of  liquid  mel- 
dy  :  everything  was  bursting  into  vegetation,  and  budding 
)rth  the  tender  promise  of  the  year.     Time,  which  delights 
obliterate  the  sterner  memorials  of  human  pride,  seems  to 
ave  passed  lightly  over  this  little  scene  of  poetry  and  love, 
nd  to  have  withheld  his  desolating  hand.    Several  centuries 
ave  gone  by,  yet  the  garden  still  flourishes  at  the  foot  of 
le  tower.     It  occupies  what  was  once  the  moat  of  the 
3ep,  and  though  some  parts  have  been  separated  by  divid- 
ng  walls,  yet  others  have  still  their  arbors  and  shaded  walks, 
s  in  the  days  of  James  ;  and  the  whole  is  sheltered,  bloom- 
ng,  and  retired.     There  is  a  charm  about  the  spot  that  has 
3en  printed  by  the  footsteps  of  departed  beauty,  and  con- 
^crated  by  the  inspirations  of  the  poet,  which  is  height- 
ned,  rather  than  impaired,  by  the  lapse  of  ages.     It  is, 
ideed,  the  gift  of  poetry  to  hallow  every  place  in  which  it 


92  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

moves ;  to  breathe  round  nature  an  odor  more  exquisit 
than  the  perfume  of  the  rose,  and  to  shed  over  it  a  th 
more  magical  than  the  blush  of  morning. 

Others  may  dwell  on  the  illustrious  deeds  of  James  as 
warrior  and  a  legislator  ;  but  I  have  delighted  to  view  hii 
merely  as  the  companion  of  his  fellow-men,  the  benefactc 
of  the  human  heart,  stooping  from  his  high  estate  to  sol 
the  sweet  flowers  of  poetry  and  song  in  the  paths  of  comnu 
life.     He  was  the  first  to  cultivate  the  vigorous  and  har< 
plant  of  Scottish  genius,  which  has  since  been  prolific 
the  most  wholesome  and  highly  flavored  fruit.     He  carrie^ 
with  him,  into  the  sterner  regions  of  the  north,  all  the  fer 
tilizing  arts  of  southern  refinement.     He  did  everything  ii 
his  power  to  win  his  countrymen  to  the  gay,  the  elegant 
and  gentle  arts  which  soften  and  refine  the  character  of 
people,  and  wreathe  a  grace  round  the  loftiness  of  a  proiu 
and  warlike  spirit.     He  wrote  many  poems,  which,  unfor 
tunately  for  the  fullness  of  his  fame,  are  now  lost  to  the 
world  ;  one,  which  is  still  preserved,  called,  "  Christ's  Kirki 
of  the  Green,"  shows  how  diligently  he  had  made  himsela 
acquainted  with  the  rustic  sports  and  pastimes  which  conl 
stitute  such  a  source  of  kind  and  social  feeling  among  thel 
Scottish  peasantry  ;  and  with  what  simple  and  happy  humoa 
he  could   enter   into   their  enjoyments.     He   contributes 
greatly  to  improve  the  national  music ;  and   traces  of  his 
tender   sentiment   and  elegant  taste  are  said   to  exist   in 
those  witching  airs,  still  piped  among  the  wild  mountain 
and  lonely  glens  of  Scotland.     He  has  thus  connected  his 
image  with  whatever  is  most  gracious  and  endearing  in  thd 
national  character  ;  he  has  embalmed  his  memory  in  song,:] 
and  floated  his  name  down  to  after-ages  in  the  rich  stream! 
of  Scottish  melody.     The  recollection  of  these  things  was] 
kindling  at  my  heart,  as  I  paced  the  silenc  scenes  of  his] 
imprisonment.    I  have  visited  Vaucluse  with  as  much  enthu 
siasm  as  a  pilgrim  would  visit  the  shrine  at  Loretto  ;  but 
I  have  never  felt  more  poetical  devotion  then  when  contem-f 
plating  the  old  tower  and  the  little  garden  at  Windsor,  and 
musing  over  the  romantic  loves  of  the  Lady  Jane  and  the 
Eoyal  Poet  of  Scotland. 


THE  COUNTRY  CHUMCH.  93 


THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH. 

A  gentleman ! 

What  o'  the  woolpack  ?  or  the  sugar-chest  ? 
Or  lists  of  velvet  ?  which  is't,  pound,  or  yard, 
You  vend  your  gentry  by  ? 

BEGG  AH'S  BUSH. 

THERE  are  few  places  more  favorable  to  the  study  of 
laracter   than  an  English  country  church.     I  was  once 
assing  a  few  weeks  at  the  seat  of  a  friend,  who  resided  in 
le  vicinity  of  one,  the  appearance  of  which  particularly 
;ruck  my  fancy.    It  was  one  of  those  rich  morsels  of  quaint 
ntiquity   which  give  such  a  peculiar  charm  to   English 
andscape.     It  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  country  filled  with 
ncient  families,  and  contained,  within  its  cold  and  silent 
sles,  the  congregated   dust  of  many  noble  generations, 
he  interior  walls  were  encrusted  with  monuments  of  every , 
and   style.      The  light    streamed    through   windows 
immed   with   armorial    bearings,    richly    emblazoned   in 
;ained  glass.     In  various  parts  of  the  church  were  tombs 
>f  knights,  and  high-born  dames,  of  gorgeous  workman- 
hip,  with  their  effigies  in  colored  marble.     On  every  side, 
eye  was  struck  with  some  instance  of  aspiring  mortality; 
ome  haughty  memorial  which  human  pride  had  erected 
ver  its  kindred  dust,  in  this  temple  of  the  most  humble  of 
1  religions. 

The   congregation   was  composed   of    the  neighborind 

3Ople  of  rank,  who  sat  in  pews  sumptuously  lined  and 

ushioned,  furnished  with  richly-gilded  prayer-books,  ang 

ecorated  with  their  arms  upon  the  pew  doors  ;  of  the  vil- 

agers  and  peasantry,  who  filled  the  buck  seats,  and  a  small 

allery  beside  the  organ ;  and  of  the  poor  of  the  parish, 

ho  were  ranged  on  benches  in  the  aisles. 

The  service  was  performed  by  a  snuffling,  well-fed  vicar, 

ho  had  a  snug  dwelling  near  the  church.    He  was  a  privi- 

eged  guest  at  all  the  tables  of  the  neighborhood,  and  had 


94  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

been  the  keenest  fox-hunter  in  the  country,  until  age  ai 
good  living  had  disabled  him  from  doing  anything  mor 
than  ride  to  see  the  hounds  throw  off,  and  make  one  at  tl 
hunting  dinner. 

Under  the  ministry  of  such  a  pastor,  I  found  it  impos 
ble  to  get  into  the  train  of  thought  suitable  to  the  time  and 
place  ;  so  having,  like  many  otner  feeble  Christians,  com 
promised  with  my  conscience  by  laying  the  sin  of  my 
delinquency  at  another  person's  threshold,  I  occupie 
myself  by  making  observations  on  my  neighbors. 

I  was  as  yet  a  stranger  in  England,  and  curious  to 
the  manners  of  its  fashionable  classes.  1  found,  as  usual, 
that  there  was  the  least  pretension  where  there  was  the 
most  acknowledged  title  to  respect.  I  was  particularly 
struck,  for  instance,  with  the  family  of  a  nobleman  of  high 
rank,  consisting  of  several  sons  and  daughters.  Kothing 
could  be  more  simple  and  unassuming  than  their  appear 
ance.  They  generally  came  to  church  in  the  plainest 
equipage,  and  often  on  foot.  The  young  ladies  would  stop 
and  converse  in  the  kindest  manner  with  the  peasantry*' 
caress  the  children,  and  listen  to  the  stories  of  the  humble 
cottagers.  Their  countenances  were  open  and  beautifully 
fair,  with  an  expression  of  high  refinement,  but  at  the  same 
time  a  frank  cheerfulness,  and  engaging  affability.  Their 
brothers  were  tall,  and  elegantly  formed.  They  were 
dressed  fashionably,  but  simply ;  with  strict  neatness  and 
propriety,  but  without  any  mannerism  or  foppishness. 
Their  whole  demeanor  was  easy  and  natural,  with  that  lofty 
grace,  and  noble  frankness,  which  bespeak  free-born  souls 
that  have  never  been  checked  in  their  growth  by  feelings  of 
inferiority.  There  is  a  healthful  hardiness  about  real  dignity 
that  never  dreads  contact  and  communion  with  others, 
however  humble.  It  is  only  spurious  pride  that  is  morbid 
and  sensitive,  and  shrinks  from  every  touch.  I  was  pleased- 
to  see  the  manner  in  which  they  would  converse  with  the 
peasantry  about  those  rural  concerns  and  field  sports  in 
which  the  gentlemen  of  the  country  so  much  delight.  In 
these  conversations,  there  was  neither  haughtiness  on  the 
one  part,  nor  servility  on  the  other ;  and  you  were  only 
reminded  of  the  difference  of  rank  by  the  habitual  respect. 
of  the  peasant. 

Ju  contrast  to  these,  was  the  family  of  a  wealthy  citizen, 


THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH.  95 

ho  had  amassed  a  vast  fortune,  and  having  purchased  the 
itate  and  mansion  of  a  ruined  nobleman  in  the  neighbor- 
ood,  was  endeavoring  to  assume  all  the  style  and  dignity 
:  a  hereditary  lord  of  the  soil.  The  family  always  came 
church  en  prince.  They  were  rolled  majestically  along 
i  a  carriage  emblazoned  with  arms.  The  crest  glittered  in 
Iver  radiance  from  every  part  of  the  harness  where  a  crest 
mid  possibly  be  placed.  A  fat  coachman  in  a  three- 
>rnered  hat,  richly  laced,  and  a  flaxen  wig,  curling  close 
»und  his  rosy  face,  was  seated  on  the  box,  with  a  sleek 
anish  dog  beside  him.  Two  footmen  in  gorgeous  liveries, 
ith  huge  bouquets,  and  gold-headed  canes,  lolled  behind, 
he  carriage  rose  and  sunk  on  its  long  springs  with  a 
iculiar  stateliness  of  motion.  The  very  horses  champed 
leir  bits,  arched  their  necks,  and  glanced  their  eyes  more 
roudly  than  common  horses  ;  either  because  they  had  got 
little  of  the  family  feeling,  or  were  reined  up  more 
ghtly  than  ordinary. 

I  could  not  but  admire  the  style  with  which  this  splendid 
ageant  was  brought  up  to  the  gate  of  the  churchyard, 
here  was  avast  effect  produced  at  the  turning  of  an  angle 
f  the  wall ;  a  great  smacking  of  the  whip  ;  straining  and 
rambling  of  the  horses  ;  glistening  of  harness,  and  flash- 
ig  of  wheels  through  gravel.  This  was  the  moment  of 
iumph  and  vainglory  to  the  coachman.  The  horses  were 
rged  and  checked,  until  they  were  fretted  into  a  foam, 
hey  threw  out  their  feet  in  a  prancing  trot,  dashing  about 
ibbks  at  every  step.  The  crowd  of  villagers  sauntering 
lietly  to  church,  opened  precipitately  to  the  right  and 
ft,  gaping  in  vacant  admiration.  On  reaching  the  gate, 
ie  horses  were  pulled  up  with  a  suddenness  that  produced 

>m mediate  stop,   and   almost    threw   them    on    their 
aunches. 

There  was  an  extraordinary  hurry  of  the  footmen  to 
ight,  open  the  door,  pull  down  the  steps,  and  prepare 
rerything  for  the  descent  on  earth  of  this  august  family. 
h*5  old  citizen  first  emerged  his  round  red  face  from  out 
ie  door,  looking  about  him  with  the  pompous  air  of  a  man 
3cnstomed  to  rule  on  ''change,  and  shake  the  stock- 
arket  with  a  nod.  His  consort,  a  fine,  fleshy,  comfort- 

dame,  followed  him.     There  seemed,  I  must  confess, 
ut  little  pride  in  her  composition.     She  was  the  picture  of 


06  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

broad,  honest,  vulgar  enjoyment.     The  world  went  well 
with  her;  and  she  liked  the  world.     She  had  fine  clothes,  H 
fine  house,  a  tine  carnage,  fine  children;  everything  watt 
fine  about  her;  it  was  nothing  but  driving  about  and  visifl 
ing  and  feasting.     Life  was  to  her  a  perpetual  revel;  it  was! 
one  long  Lord  Mayor's  day. 

Two  daughters  succeeded  to  this  goodly  couple.     They 
certainly  were  handsome,  but  had  a  supercilious  air  that 
chilled  admiration,  and  disposed  the  spectator  to  be  critical 
They  were  ultra-fashionables  in  dress,  and,  though  no  one 
could  deny  the  richness  of  their  decorations,  yet  their  ap 
propriateness  might  be  questioned  amidst  the  simplicity  of 
a  country  church.     They  descended  loftily  from  the  ca» 
riage,  and  moved  up  the  line  of  peasantry  with  a  step  that 
seemed  dainty  of  the  soil  it  trod  on.     They  cast  an  excurM 
give  glance  around,  that  passed  coldly  over  the  burly  faces 
of  the  peasantry,  until  they  met  the  eyes  of  the  nobleman's 
family,  when  their  countenances  immediately  brightened 
into  smiles,  and  they  made  the  most  profound  and  elegant': 
curtseys,  which  were  returned  in  a  manner  that  showed 
they  were  but  slight  acqaintances. 

I  must  not  forget  the  two  sons  of  this  aspiring  citizenM 
who  came  to  church  in  a  dashing  curricle,  with  outriders. 
They  were  arrayed  in  the  extremity  of  the  mode,  with  all 
that  pedantry  of  dress  which  marks  the  man  of  question-' 
able  pretensions  to  style.     They  kept  entirely  by  them 
selves,  eying  every  one  askance  that  came  near  them,  as  if 
measuring  his  claims  to  respectability;  yet  they  were  with-''' 
out  conversation,   except  the  exchange  of  an  occasional 
phrase.     They  even  moved  artificially,  for  their  bodies,  in; 
compliance  with  the  caprice  of  the  day,  had  been  disci 
plined  into  the  absence  of  all  ease  and  freedom.     Art  had 
done  everything  to  accomplish  them  as  men  of  fashion,  but 
nature  had  denied  them  the  nameless  grace.     They  were 
vulgarly  shaped,  like  men  formed  for  the  common  purposes 
of  life,  and  had  that  air  of  supercilious  assumption  which  is 
never  seen  in  the  true  gentleman. 

I  have  been  rather  minute  in  drawing  the  pictures  of 
these  two  families,  because  I  considered  them  specimens  of 
what  is  often  to  be  met  with  in  this  country — the  unpre 
tending  great,  and  the  arrogant  little.  I  have  no  respect 
for  titled  rank,  unless  it  be  accompanied  by  true  nobility 


THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH.  97 

soul ;  but  I  have  remarked,  in  all  countries  where  these 
ficial  distinctions  exist,  that  the  very  highest  classes  are 
ays  the  most  courteous  and  unassuming.  Those  who 

well  assured  of  their  own  standing  are  least  apt  to  tres- 
s  on  that  of  others;  whereas,  ijothing  is  so  offensive  as 

aspirings  of  vulgarity,  which  thinks  to  elevate  itself  by 
niliating  its  neighbor. 

I  have  brought  these  families  into  contrast,  I  must 
ice  their  behavior  in  church.  That  of  the  nobleman's 
lily  was  quiet,  serious  and  attentive.  Not  that  they  ap- 
red  to  have  any  fervor  of  devotion,  but  rather  a  respect 

sacred  things,  and  sacred  places,  inseparable  from  good- 
eding.  The  others,  on  the  contrary,  were  in  a  perpetual 
ter  and  whisper;  they  betrayed  a  continual  conscious- 
s  of  finery,  and  the  sorry  ambition  of  being  the  won- 
s  of  a  rural  congregation. 
?he  old  gentleman  was  the  only  one  really  attentive  to 

service.  He  took  the  whole  burden  of  family  devotion 
m  himself;  standing  bolt  upright,  and  uttering  the  re- 
nses  with  a  loud  voice  that  might  be  heard  all  over  the 
irch.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  one  of  those  thorough 
irch  and  king  men  who  connect  the  idea  of  devotion 
1  loyalty;  who  consider  the  Deity,  somehow  or  other, 
the  government  party,  and  religion  "  a  very  excellent 
b  of  thing,  that  ought  to  be  countenanced  and  kept  up." 
Vhen  he  joined  so  loudly  in  the  service,  it  seemed  more 
way  of  example  to  the  lower  orders,  to  show  them  that 
ugh  so  great  and  wealthy,  he  was  not  above  being  reli- 
us  ;  as  I  have  seen  a  turtle -fed  alderman  swallow  publicly 
asin  a  charity  soup,  smacking  his  lips  at  every  mouthful, 

pronouncing  it  "excellent  food  for  the  poor." 
When  the  service  was  at  an  end,  I  was  curious  to  witness 

several  exits  of  my  groups.  The  young  noblemen  and 
ir  sisters,  as  the  day  was  fine,  preferred  strolling  home 
oss  the  fields,  chatting  with  the  country  people  as  they 
nt.  The  others  departed  as  they  came,  in  grand  parade, 
lin  were  the  equipages  wheeled  up  to  the  gate.  There 
i  again  the  smacking  of  whips,  the  clattering  of  hoofs, 
I  the  glittering  of  harness.  The  horses  started  off  almost 
a  bound  ;  the  villagers  again  hurried  to  right  and  left ; 

wheels  threw  up  a  cloud  of  dust,  and  the  aspiring  family 
j  wrapt  out  of  sight  in  a  whirlwind. 


98  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON. 

Pittie  olde  age,  within  whose  silver  liaires 
Honour  and  reverence  evermore  have  raign'd. 

MARLOWE'S  larnburlaine. 

DURING  my  residence  in  the  country,  I  used  frequently 
to  attend  at  the  old  village  church.     Its  shadowy  aisles,  its 
mouldering  monuments,  its  dark  oaken  panelling,  all  reveij 
end  with  the  gloom  of  departed  years,  seemed  to  fit  it  for  tl 
haunt  of  solemn  meditation.     A  Sunday,  too,  in  the  coui 
try,  is  so  holy  in  its  repose,  such  a  pensive  quiet  reigns  ove 
the  face  of  Nature,  that  every  restless  passion  is  charmed 
down,  and  we  feel  all  the  natural  religion  of  the  soul  gentlj^ 
springing  up  within  us. 

"  Sweet  day,  so  pure,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky!" 

I  cannot  lay  claim  to  the  merit  of  being  a  devout  man; 
but  there  are  feelings  that  visit  me  in  a  country  churcl 
amid  the  beautiful  serenity  of  Nature,  which  I  experienc 
nowhere  else;  and  if  not  a  more  religious,  think  I  am 
better  man  on  Sunday  than  on  any  other  day  of  the  sever 

But  in  this  church  I  felt  myself  continually  thrown  buck 
upon  the  world  by  the  frigidity  and  pomp  of  the  poor  wormffl 
around  me.  The  only  being  that  seemed  thoroughly  tjl 
feel  the  humble  and  prostrate  piety  of  a  true  Christian  \va« 
a  poor  decrepit  old  woman,  bending  under  the  weight  off 
years  and  infirmities.  She  bore  the  traces  of  soniethingi 
better  than  abject  poverty.  The  lingerings  of  decent  pride 
were  visible  in  her  appearance.  Her  dress,  though  humble! 
in  the  extreme,  was  scrupulously  clean.  Some  trivial 
respect,  too,  had  been  awarded  her,  for  she  did  not  take 
her  seat  among  the  village  poor,  but  sat  alone  on  the 
steps  of  the  altar.  She  seemed  to  have  survived  all  love,, 
all  friendship,  all  society,  and  to  have  nothing  left  her  but 
the  hopes  of  heaven.  When  I  saw  her  feebly  rising  and 


THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON.  99 

ending  her  aged  form  in  prayer  ;  habitually  conning  her 
rayer-book,  which  her  palsied  and  failing  eyes  could  not 
ermit  her  to  read,  but  which  she  evidently  knew  by  heart ; 

felt  persuaded  that  the  faltering  voice  of  that  poor  woman 
rose  to  heaven  far  before  the  responses  of  the  clerk,  the 
well  of  the  organ,  or  the  chanting  of  the  choir. 

I  am  fond  of  loitering  about  country  churches;  and  this 
ras  so  delightfully  situated,  that  it  frequently  attracted  me. 
t  stood  on  a  knoll,  round  which  a  small  stream  made  a 
eautifnl  bend,  and  then  wound  its  way  through  a  long 
each  of  soft  meadow  scene ry.  The  church  was  surrounded 
iy  yew  trees,  which  seemed  almost  coeval  with  itself.  Its 
all  Gothic  spire  shot  up  lightly  from  among  them,  with 
ooks  and  crows  generally  wheeling  about  it.  I  was  seated 
here  one  still  sunny  morning,  watching  two  laborers  who 
srere  digging  a  grave.  They  had  chosen  one  of  the  most 
emote  and  neglected  corners  of  the  churchyard,  where,  by 
he  number  of  nameless  graves  around,  it  would  appear 
hat  the  indigent  and  friendless  were  huddled  into  the  earth. 

was  told  that  the  new-made  grave  was  for  the  only  son  of 

poor  widow.  While  I  was  meditating  on  the  distinctions 
f  worldly  rank,  which  extend  thus  down  into  the  very  dust, 
he  toll  of  the  bell  announced  the  approach  of  the  funeral. 
?hey  were  the  obsequies  of  poverty,  with  which  pride  had 
othing  to  do.  A  coffin  of  the  plainest  materials,  without 
>all  or  other  covering,  was  borne  by  some  of  the  villagers. 
?he  sexton  walked  before  with  an  air  of  cold  indifference. 
?here  were  no  mock  mourners  in  the  trappings  of  affected 
poe,  but  there  was  one  real  mourner  who  feebly  tottered 
fter  the  corpse.  It  was  the  aged  mother  of  the  deceased — 
he  poor  old  woman  whom  I  had  seen  seated  on  the  steps  of 
he  altar.  She  was  supported  by  an  humble  friend,  who 
endeavoring  to  comfort  her.  A  few  of  the  neighboring 
>oor  had  joined  the  train,  and  some  children  of  the  village 
vere  running  hand  in  hand,  now  shouting  with  unthink- 
ng  mirth,  and  now  pausing  to  gaze,  with  childish  curiosity, 
>n  the  grief  of  the  mourner. 

As  the  funeral  train  approached  the  grave,  the  parson 
ssued  from  the  church  porch,  arrayed  in  the  surplice,  with 
)rayer-book  in  hand,  and  attended  by  the  clerk.  The  ser- 
ice,  however,  was  a  mere  act  of  charity.  The  deceased 
lad  been  destitute,  and  the  survivor  was  penniless.  It  was 


100  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

shuffled  through,  therefore,  in  form,  hut  coldly  and  unfeel 
ingly.  The  well-fed  priest  moved  but  a  few  steps  from  the 
church  door;  his  voice  could  scarcely  be  heard  at  the  grave  j 
and  never  did  I  hear  the  funeral  service,  that  sublime  and, 
touching  ceremony,  turned  into  such  a  frigid  mummery  of 
words. 

I  approached  the  grave.  The  coffin  was  placed  on  the 
ground.  On  it  were  inscribed  the  name  and  age  of  the  de 
ceased — "  George  Somers,  aged  26  years."  The  poor  mother 
had  been  assisted  to  kneel  down  at  the  head  of  it.  Her  with 
ered  hands  were  clasped,  as  if  in  prayer;  but  I  could  perceive, 
by  a  feeble  roc  King  of  the  body,  and  a  convulsive  motion 
of  the  lips,  that  she  was  gazing  on  the  last  relics  of  her  sou 
with  the  yearnings  of  a  mother's  heart. 

Preparations  were  made  to  deposit  the  coffin  in  the  earth. 
There  was  that  bustling  stir,  which  breaks  so  harshly  oij 
the  feelings  of  grief  and  affection;  directions  given  in  the 
cold  tones  of  business;  the  striking  of  spades  into  sand  and 
gravel;  which,  at  the  grave  of  those  we  love,  is  of  all  sounds 
the  most  withering.  The  bustle  around  seemed  to  waken 
the  mother  from  a  wretched  reverie.  She  raised  her  glazed 
eyes,  and  looked  about  with  a  faint  wildness.  As  the  men: 
approached  with  cords  to  lower  the  coffin  into  the  grave,  she 
wrung  her  hands,  and  broke  into  an  agony  of  grief.  The- 
poor  woman  who  attended  her  took  her  by  the  arm,  endeav 
oring  to  raise  her  from  the  earth  and  to  whisper  something 
like  consolation — "Nay,  now — nay,  now — don't  take  il 
so  sorely  to  heart."  She  could  only  shake  her  head,  and 
wring  her  hands,  as  one  not  to  be  comforted. 

As  they  lowered  the  body  into  the  earth,  the  creaking  oJ 
the  cords  seemed  to  agonize  her;  but  when,  on  some  acci 
dental  obstruction,  there  was  a  jostling,  of  the  coffin,  all  th< 
tenderness  of  the  mother  burst  forth;  as  if  any  harm  coulc 
come  to  him  who  was  far  beyond  the  reach  of  worldly  suf 
fering. 

I  could  see  no  more — my  heart  swelled  into  my  throat— 
my  eyes  filled  with  tears — I  felt  as  if  I  were  acting  a  barbar 
ous  part  in  standing  by  and  gazing  idly  on  this  scene  o> 
maternal  anguish.  I  wandered  to  another  part  of  thi 
churchyard,  where  I  remained  until  the  funeral  train  hat 
dispersed. 

When  I  saw  the  mother  slowly  and  painfully  quitting  th- 


THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON.  101 

grave,  leaving  behind  her  the  remains  of  all  that  was  dear 
to  her  on  earth,  and  returning  to  silence  and  destitution, 
my  heart  ached  for  her.  What,  thought  I,  are  the  dis 
tresses  of  the  rich  ?  They  have  friends  to  soothe — pleasures 
to  beguile — a  world  to  divert  and  dissipate  their  griefs. 
What  are  the  sorrows  of  the  young  ?  Their  growing  minds 
soon  close  above  the  wound — their  elastic  spirits  soon  rise 
beneath  the  pressure — their  green  and  ductile  affections  soon 
twine  around  new  objects.  But  the  sorrows  of  the  poor, 
who  have  no  outward  appliances  to  soothe — the  sorrows  of 
the  aged,  with  whom  life  at  best  is  but  a  wintry  day,  and 
who  can  look  for  no  aftergrowth  of  joy — the  sorrows  of  a 
widow,  aged,  solitary,  destitute,  mourning  over  an  only 
son,  the  last  solace  of  her  years; — these  are  indeed  sorrows 
which  make  us  feel  the  impotency  of  consolation. 

It  was  some  time  before  I  left  the  churchyard.  On  my 
way  homeward,  I  met  with  the  woman  who  had  acted  as 
comforter;  she  was  just  returning  from  accompanying  the 
mother  to  her  lonely  habitation,  and  I  drew  from  her  some 
particulars  connected  with  the  affecting  scene  I  had  wit 
nessed. 

The  parents  of  the  deceased  had  resided  in  the  village 
from  childhood.  They  had  inhabited  one  of  the  neatest 
cottages,  and  by  various  rural  occupations,  and  the  assist 
ance  of  a  small  garden,  had  supported  themselves  credita 
bly,  and  comfortably,  and  led  a  happy  and  a  blameless  life. 
They  had  one  son,  who  had  grown  up  to  be  the  staff  and 
pride  of  their  age — ''Oh,  sir!"  said  the  good  woman,  "he 
was  such  a  comely  lad,  so  sweet-tempered,  so  kind  to  every 
one  around  him,  so  dutiful  to  his  parents!  It  did  one's 
heart  good  to  see  him  of  a  Sunday,  drest  out  in  his  best,  so 
tall,  so  straight,  so  cheery,  supporting  his  old  mother  to 
church — for  she  was  always  fonder  of  leaning  on  George's 
arm  than  on  her  good  man's;  and,  poor  soul,  she  might 
well  be  proud  of  him,  for  a  finer  lad  there  was  not  in  the 
country  round." 

Unfortunately,  the  son  was  tempted,  during  a  year  of 
scarcity  and  agricultural  hardship,  to  enter  into  the  serv 
ice  of  one  of  the  small  craft  that  plied  on  a  neighboring 
river.  He  had  not  been  long  in  this  employ,  when  he  was 
entrapped  by  a  press-gang,  and  carried  off  to  sea.  His 
parents  received  tidings  of  his  seizure,  but  beyond  that 


]02  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

they  could  learn  nothing.  It  was  the  loss  of  their  mail 
prop.  The  father,  who  was  already  infirm,  grew  hearties 
and  melancholy,  and  sunk  into  his  grave.  The  widow,  lei  i 
lonely  in  her  age  and  feebleness,  could  no  longer  suppo|| 
herself,  and  came  upon  the  parish.  Still  there  was  a  kin 
of  feeling  towards  her  throughout  the  village,  and  a  cert«j 
respect  as  being  one  of  the  oldest  inhabitants.  As  no  OBI 
applied  for  the  cottage  in  which  she  had  passed  so  main 
happy  days,  she  was  permitted  to  remain  in  it,  where  sBi 
lived  solitary  and  almost  helpless.  The  few  wants  of  natuw 
were  chiefly  supplied  from  the  scanty  productions  of  faBI 
little  garden,  which  the  neighbors  would  now  and  then  cnj 
tivate  for  her.  It  was  but  a  few  days  before  the  time  m 
which  these  circumstances  were  told  me,  that  she  wpj 
gathering  some  vegetables  for  her  repast,  when  she  heafl 
the  cottage-door  which  faced  the  garden  suddenly  openeB 
A  stranger  came  out,  and  seemed  to  be  looking  eagerly  an! 
wildly  around.  He  was  dressed  in  seamen's  clothes,  wft 
emaciated  and  ghastly  pale,  and  bore  the  air  of  one  brokei 
by  sickness  and  hardships.  He  saw  her,  and  hastenS 
towards  her,  but  his  steps  were  faint  and  faltering;  he  sain 
on  his  knees  before  her,  and  sobbed  like  a  child.  The  po« 
woman  gazed  upon  him  with  a  vacant  and  wandering  eye-S 
"  Oh  my  dear,  dear  mother!  don't  you  know  your  son?  yo»j 
poor  boy  George?"  It  was,  indeed,  the  wreck  of  her  onfl 
noble  lad;  who,  shattered  by  wounds,  by  sickness,  an 
foreign  imprisonment,  had,  at  length,  dragged  his  wasttf 
limbs  homeward,  to  repose  among  the  scenes  of  his  chiMJ 
hood. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  detail  the  particulars  of  such™ 
meeting,  where  sorrow  and  joy  were  so  completely  blende<M 
still  he  was  alive! — he  was  come  home! — he  might  yet  lifl 
to  comfort  and  cherish  her  old  age!  Nature,  however,  \vm 
exhausted  in  him;  and  if  anything  had  been  wanting  • 
finish  the  work  of  fate,  the  desolation  of  his  native  cottaB 
would  have  been  sufficient.  He  stretched  himself  on  tfl 
pallet  on  which  his  widowed  mother  had  passed  manyH 
sleepless  night,  and  he  never  rose  from  it  again. 

The  villagers,  when  they  heard  that  George  Somers  had 
returned,  crowded  to  see  him,  offering  every  comfort  aifl 
assistance  that  their  humble  means  afforded.     He  was  tfl 
weak,  however,  to  talk — he  could  only  look  his  thanks.    Hi* 


THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON.  103 

other  was  his  constant  attendant,  and  he  seemed  unwill- 
g  to  be  helped  by  any  other  hand. 

There  is  something  in  sickness  that  breaks  down  the 
•ide  of  manhood ;  that  softens  the  heart,  and  brings  it  back 

the  feelings  of  infancy.     Who  that  has  languished,  even 

advanced  life,  in  sickness  and  despondency;  who  that 
is  pined  on  a  weary  bed  in  the  neglect  and  loneliness  of  a 
reign  land;  but  has  thought  on  the  mother  that  "  looked 
i  his  childhood,"  that  smoothed  his  pillow,  and  admiriis- 
red  to  his  helplessness?  Oh!  there  is  an  enduring  tender- 
3ss  in  the  love  of  a  mother  to  a  son,  that  transcends  all 
her  affections  of  the  heart.  It  is  neither  to  be  chilled  by 
1  fish  ness,  nor  daunted  by  danger,  nor  weakened  by 
orthlessness,  nor  stifled  by  ingratitude.  She  will  sacrifice 
rery  comfort  to  his  convenience;  she  will  surrender  every 
easure  to  his  enjoyment;  she  will  glory  in  his  fame,  and 
cult  in  his  prosperity; — and,  if  misfortune  overtake  him, 

will  be  the  dearer  to  her  from  misfortune;  and  if  dis- 
•ace  settle  upon  his  name,  she  will  still  love  and  cherish 
m  in  spite  of  his  disgrace;  and  if  all  the  world  beside  cast 
in  off,  she  will  be  all  the  world  to  him. 
Poor  George  Somers  had  known  what  it  was  to  be  in 
3kness,  and  none  to  soothe — lonely  and  in  prison,  and 
one  to  visit  him.  He  could  not  endure  his  mother  from 
.s  sight;  if  she  moved  away,  his  eye  would  follow  her. 
le  would  sit  for  hours  by  his  bed,  watching  him  as  he 
ept.  Sometimes  he  would  start  from  a  feverish  dream, 
id  look  anxiously  up  until  he  saw  her  bending  over 
Im,  when  he  would  take  her  hand,  lay  it  on  his  bosom, 
id  fall  asleep  with  the  tranquility  of  a  child.  In  this  way 
e  died. 

My  first  impulse,  on  hearing  this  humble  tale  of  afflic- 
on,  was  to  visit  the  cottage  of  the  mourner,  and  adminis- 
r  pecuniary  assistance,  and  if  possible,  comfort.  I  found, 
owever,  on  inquiry,  that  the  good  feelings  of  the  villagers 
ad  prompted  them  to  do  everything  that  the  case  admit- 
d;  and  as  the  poor  know  best  how  to  console  each  other's 
>rrows,  I  did  not  venture  to  intrude. 

The  next  Sunday  I  was  at  the  village  church;  when,  to 
IV  surprise,  I  saw  the  poor  old  woman  tottering  down  the 
sle  to  her  accustomed  seat  on  the  steps  of  the  altar. 

She  had  made  an  effort  to  put  on  something  like  mourn- 


104  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

ing  for  her  son;  and  nothing  could  be  more  touching  than 
this  struggle  between  pious  affection  and  utter  poverty:  a 
black  ribbon  or  so — a  faded  black  handkerchief — and  one 
or  two  more  such  humble  attempts  to  express  by  outward 
signs  that  grief  which  passes  show. — When  I  looked  round 
upon  the  storied  monuments,  the  stately  hatchments,  thf 
cold  marble  pomp,  with  which  grandeur  mourned  magnifi 
cently  over  departed  pride,  and  turned  to  this  poor  widow, 
bowed  down  by  age  and  sorrow  at  the  altar  of  her  God,  and 
offering  up  the  prayers  and  praises  of  a  pious,  though  a 
broken  heart,  I  felt  that  this  living  monument  of  real  griej 
was  worth  them  all. 

I  related  her  story  to  some  of  the  wealthy  members  oJ 
the  congregation,  and  they  were  moved  by  it.  They  ex 
erted  themselves  to  render  her  situation  more  comfortable, 
and  to  lighten  her  afflictions.  It  was,  however,  bul 
smoothing  a  few  steps  to  the  grave.  In  the  course  of  a 
Sunday  or  two  after,  she  was  missed  from  her  usual  seal 
at  church,  and  before  I  left  the  neighborhood,  I  heard, 
with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction,  that  she  had  quietly  breathed 
her  last,  and  had  gone  to  rejoin  those  she  loved,  in  thai 
world  where  sorrow  is  never  known,  and  friends  are  nevei 
parted. 


THE  BOARS  HEAD  TA  VERN,  EASTCHEAP. 


THE  BOARDS  HEAD  TAVEEN,  EASTCHEAP. 

A   SHAKSPERIAN   RESEARCH. 

"A  tavern  is  the  rendezvous,  the  exchange,  the  staple  of  good 
Hows.  I  have  heard  my  great-grandfather  tell,  how  his  great-great- 
randfather  should  say,  that  it  was  an  old  proverb  when  his  great- 
randf'ather  was  a  child,  that  '  it  was  a  good  wind  that  blew  a  man 

the  wine.' " 

MOTHER  BOMBIE. 

IT  is  a  pious  custom,  in  some  Catholic  countries,  to 
onor  the  memory  of  saints  by  votive  lights  burnt  before 
ieir  pictures.  The  popularity  of  a  saint,  therefore,  may 
e  known  by  the  number  of  these  offerings.  One,  per- 
aps,  is  left  to  moulder  in  the  darkness  of  his  little  chapel; 
nother  may  have  a  solitary  lamp  to  throw  its  blinking  rays 
thwart  his  effigy;  while  the  whole  blaze  of  adoration  is 
avished  at  the  shrine  of  some  beatified  father  of  renown. 
Hie  wealthy  devotee  brings  his  huge  luminary  of  wax;  the 
ager  zealot,  his  seven-branched  candlestick;  and  even  the 
nendicant  pilgrim  is  by  no  means  satisfied  that  sufficient 
ight  is  thrown  upon  the  deceased,  unless  he  hangs  up  his 
ittle  lamp  of  smoking  oil.  The  consequence  is,  in  the 
agerness  to  enlighten,  they  are  often  apt  to  obscure;  and 

have  occasionally  seen  an  unlucky  saint  almost  smoked 
ut  of  countenance  by  the  officiousness  of  his  followers. 

In  like  manner  has  it  fared  with  the  immortal  Shaks- 
>eare.  Every  writer  considers  it  his  bounden  duty  to  light 
ip  some  portion  of  his  character  or  works,  and  to  rescue 
ome  merit  from  oblivion.  The  commentor,  opulent  in 
vords,  produces  vast  tomes  of  dissertations;  the  common 
icrd  of  editors  send  up  mists  of  obscurity  from  their  notes 
t  the  bottom  of  each  page;  and  every  casual  scribbler^/ 
n'ings  his  farthing  rush-light  of  eulogy  or  research,  tf7 
well  the  cloud  of  incense  and  of  smoke. 

As  I  honor  all  established  usages  of  my  brethren  of  the 
[uilL  I  thought  it  but  proper  to  contribute  my  mite  of 


106  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

homage  to  the  memory  of  the  illustrious  bard.  I  was  fo 
some  time,  however,  sorely  puzzled  in  what  way  I  shouL 
discharge  this  duty.  I  found  myself  anticipated  in  ever 
attempt  at  a  new  reading;  every  doubtful  Jine  had  been  ex> 
plained  a  dozen  different  ways,  and  perplexed  beyond  th 
reach  of  elucidation;  and  as  to  fine  passages,  they  had  al 
been  amply  praised  by  previous  admirers  :  nay,  so  com 
pletely  had  the  bard,  of  late,  been  overlarded  with  pane 
gyric  by  a  great  German  critic,  that  it  was  difficult  now  t< 
find  even  a  fault  that  had  not  been  argued  into  a  beauty. 

In  this  perplexity,  I  was  one  morning  turning  over  hi 
pages,  when  I  casually  opened  upon  the  comic  scenes  o 
Henry  IV.,  and  was,  in  a  moment,  completely  lost  in  tin 
madcap  revelry  of  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern.  So  vividly  ant 
naturally  are  these  scenes  of  humor  depicted,  and  with  sue] 
force  and  consistency  are  the  characters  sustained,  that  the,]1 
become  mingled  up  in  the  mind  with  the  facts  and  persom 
ages  of  real  life.  To  few  readers  does  it  occur,  that  thes* 
are  all  ideal  creations  of  a  poet's  brain,  and  that,  in  sobe: 
truth,  no  such  knot  of  merry  roisterers  ever  enlivened  th« 
dull  neighborhood  of  Eastcheap. 

For  my  part,  I  love  to  give  myself  up  to  the  illusions  o 
poetry.     A  hero  of  fiction  that  never  existed,  is  just  a 
valuable  to  me  as  a  hero  of  history  that  existed  a  thousano 
years  since:  and,  if  I  may  be  excused  such  an  insensibilit; 
to  the  common  ties  of  human  nature,  I  would  not  give  u] 
fat  Jack  for  half  the  great  men  of  ancient  chronicle.    Wha 
have  the  heroes  of  yore  done  for  me,  or  men  like  me?  The; 
have  conquered  countries  of  which  I  do  not  enjoy  an  acre; 
or  they  have  gained  laurels  of  which  I  do  not  inherit:  a  leaf! 
or  they  have  furnished  examples  of  hair-brained  prowess/ 
which  I  have  neither  the  opportunity  nor  the  inclination  t<}< 
follow.    But  old  Jack  Falstaff!— kind  Jack  Falstaff !— sweet) 
Jack  Falstaff!  has  enlarged  the  boundaries  of  human  enjoy 
ment;  he  has  added  vast  regions  of  wit  and  good-humor,  im 
which  the  poorest  man  may  revel;  and  has  bequeathed  a 
never-failing  inheritance  of  jolly  laughter,  to  make  man-t 
kind  merrier  and  better  to  the  latest  posterity. 

A  thought  suddenly  struck  me:  "  I  will  make  a  pilgrim 
age  to  Eastcheap,"  said  I,  closing  the  book,  "  and  see  ifi 
the  old  Boar's  Head  Tavern  still  exists.  Who  knows  but  I 
may  light  upon  some  legendary  traces  of  Dame  Quickly  an(L 


TEE  BOARS  HEAD  TAVERN,  EASTCHEAP.        10? 

her  guests;  at  any  rate,  there  will  be  a  kindred  pleasure,  in 
treading  the  halls  once  vocal  with  their  mirth,  to  that  the 
toper  enjoys  in  smelling  to  the  empty  cask,  once  filled  with 
generous  wine." 

The  resolution  was  no  sooner  formed  than  put  in  execu 
tion.  I  forbear  to  treat  of  the  various  adventures  and 
wonders  I  encountered  in  my  travels,  of  the  haunted  re 
gions  of  Cock-lane;  of  the  faded  glories  of  Little  Britain, 
and  the  parts  adjacent;  what  perils  I  ran  in  Cateaton-street 
and  Old  Jewry;  of  the  renowned  Guildhall  and  its  two 
stunted  giants,  the  pride  and  wonder  of  the  city,  and  the 
terror  of  all  unlucky  urchins;  and  how  I  visited  London 
Stone,  and  struck  my  staff  upon  it,  in  imitation  of  that 
arch-rebel,  Jake  Cade. 

Let  it  suffice  to  say,  that  I  at  length  arrived  in  merry 
Eastcheap,  that  ancient  region  of  wit  and  wassail,  where 
the  very  names  of  the  streets  relished  of  good  cheer,  as 
Pudding-lane  bears  testimony  even  at  the  present  day.  For 
Eastcheap,  says  old  Stow,  "  was  always  famous  for  its  con 
vivial  domgs.  The  cookes  cried  hoc  ribbes  of  beef  roasted, 
pies  well  baked,  and  other  victuals;  there  was  clattering  of 
pewter  pots,  harpe,  pipe,  and  sawtrie."  Alas!  how  sadly  is 
the  scene  changed  since  the  roaring  days  of  Falstaff  and  old 
Stow!  The  madcap  roisterer  has  given  place  to  the  plod 
ding  tradesman;  the  clattering  of  pots  and  the  sound  of 
"harpe  and  sawtrie,"  to  the  din  of  carts  and  the  accurst 
dinging  of  the  dustman's  bell;  and  no  song  is  heard,  save, 
haply,  the  strain  of  some  syren  from  Billingsgate,  chanting 
the  eulogy  of  deceased  mackerel. 

I  sought  in  vain  for  the  ancient  abode  of  Dame  Quickly. 
The  only  relict  of  it  is  a  boar's  head,  carved  in  relief  stone, 
which  formerly  served  as  the  sign,  but,  at  present,  is  built 
into  the  parting  line  of  two  houses  which  stand  on  the  site 
of  the  renowned  old  tavern. 

For  the  history  of  this  little  empire  of  good  fellowship,  I 
was  referred  to  a  tallow-chandler's  widow,  opposite,  who 
had  been  born  and  brought  up  on  the  spot,  and  was  looked 
up  to  as  the  indisputable  chronicler  of  the  neighborhood. 
I  found  her  seated  in  a  little  back  parlor,  the  window  of 
.which  looked  out  upon  a  yard  about  eight  feet  square,  laid 
out  as  a  flower-garden;  while  a  glass  door  opposite  afforded 
a  distant  peep  of  the  street,  through  a  vista  of  soap  and 


108  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

tallow  candles;  the  two  views,  which  comprised,  in  all 
probability,  her  prospects  in  life,  and  the  little  world  in 
which  she  had  lived,  and  moved,  and  had  her  being,  for  the 
better  part  of  a  century. 

To  be  versed  in  the  history  of  Eastcheap,  great  and  little, 
from  London  Stone  even  unto  the  Monument,  was,  doubt 
less,  in  her  opinion,  to  be  acquainted  with  the  history  oi 
the  universe.  Yet,  with  all  this,  she  possessed  the  simplic 
ity  of  true  wisdom,  and  that  liberal,  communicative  disposi 
tion,  which  I  have  generally  remarked  in  intelligent  old 
ladies  knowing  in  the  concerns  of  their  neighborhood. 

Her  information,  however,  did  not  extend  far  back  into 
antiquity.  She  could  throw  no  light  upon  the  history  oil 
the  Boar's  Head,  from  the  time  that  Dame  Quickly  espoused 
the  valiant  Pistol,  until  the  great  fire  of  London,  when  it 
was  unfortunately  burnt  down.  It  was  soon  rebuilt,  and: 
continued  to  flourish  under  the  old  name  and  sign,  until  a 
dying  landlord,  struck  with  remorse  for  double  scores,  bad 
measures,  and  other  iniquities  which  are  incident  to  the 
sinful  race  of  publicans,  endeavored  to  make  his  peace  with 
Heaven  by  bequeathing  the  tavern  to  St.  Michael's  church, 
Crooked-lane,  toward  the  supporting  of  a  chaplain.  For 
some  time  the  vestry  meetings  were  regularly  held  there ; 
but  it  was  observed  that  the  old  Boar  never  held  up  his 
head  under  church  government.  He  gradually  declined, 
and  finally  gave  his  last  gasp  about  thirty  years  since. 
The  tavern  was  then  turned  into  shops;  but  she  informed 
me  that  a  picture  of  it  was  still  preserved  in  St.  Michael's 
church,  which  stood  just  in  the  rear.  To  get  a  sight  of 
this  picture  was  now  my  determination;  so,  having  informed 
myself  of  the  abode  of  the  sexton,  I  took  my  leave  of  the 
venerable  chronicler  of  Eastcheap,  my  visit  having  doubt 
less  raised  greatly  her  opinion  of  her  legendary  lore,  and 
furnished  an  important  incident  in  the  history  of  her  life. 

It  cost  me  some  difficulty,  and  much  curious  inquiry,  to 
ferret  out  the  humble  hanger-on  to  the  church.  I  had  to 
explore  Crooked-lane,  and  divers  little  alleys,  and  dark 
elbows,  and  dark  passages,  with  which  this  old  city  is  per 
forated,  like  an  ancient  cheese,  or  a  worm-eaten  chest  of 
drawers.  At  length  I  traced  him  to  a  corner  of  a  small*] 
court,  surrounded  by  lofty  houses,  where  the  inhabitants 
enjoy  about  as  much  of  the  face  of  heaven  as  a  community 


BOARDS  HEAD  TA  VERN,  EASTCBEAP.       109 

of  frogs  at  the  bottom  of  a  well.  The  sexton  was  a  meek, 
acquiescing  little  man,  of  a  bowing,  lowly  habit;  yet  he  had 
a  pleasant  twinkling  in  his  eye,  and  if  encouraged,  would 
now  and  then  venture  a  small  pleasantry;  such  as  a  man 
of  his  low  estate  might  venture  to  make  in  the  company  of 
high  churchwardens,  and  other  mighty  men  of  the  earth. 
I  found  him  in  company  with  the  deputy  organist,  seated 
apart,  like  Milton's  angels;  discoursing,  no  doubt,  on  high 
doctrinal  points,  and  settling  the  affairs  of  the  church  over 
a  friendly  pot  of  ale;  for  the  lower  classes  of  English  sel 
dom  deliberate  on  any  weighty  matter,  without  the  assist 
ance  of  a  cool  tankard  to  clear  their  understandings.  I 
arrived  at  the  moment  when  they  had  finished  their  ale  and 
their  argument,  and  were  about  to  repair  to  the  church  to 
put  it  in  order  ;  so,  having  made  known  my  wishes,  I 
received  their  gracious  permission  to  accompany  them. 

The  church  of  St.  Michael's,  Crooked-lane,  standing  a 
short  distance  from  Billingsgate,  is  enriched  with  the  tomb? 
of  many  fishmongers  of  renown;  and  as  every  profession  has 
its  galaxy  of  glory,  and  its  constellation  of  great  men,  I 
presume  the  monument  of  a  mighty  fishmonger  of  the 
olden  time  is  regarded  with  as  much  reverence,  by  succeed 
ing  generations  of  the  craft,  as  poets  feel  on  contemplating 
the  tomb  of  Virgil,  or  soldiers  the  monument  of  a  Marl- 
borough  or  Turenne. 

I  cannot  but  turn  aside,  while  thus  speaking  of  illustrious 
men,  to  observe  that  St.  Michael's,  Crooked-lane,  con 
tains  also  the  ashes  of  that  doughty  champion,  William 
Walworth,  Knight,  who  so  manfully  clove  down  the  sturdy 
wight,  Wat  Tyler,  in  Smithfield;  a  hero  worthy  of  hon 
orable  blazon,  as  almost  the  only  Lord  Mayor  on  record 
famous  for  deeds  of  arms;  the  sovereigns  of  Cockney  being 
generally  renowned  as  the  most  pacific  of  all  potentates.  * 

*  The  following  was  the  ancient  Inscription  on  the  monument  of  this  worthy, 
which,  unhappily,  was  destroyed  in  the  great  conflagration: 
Hereunder  lyth  a  man  of  fame, 
William  Walworth  callyd  by  name. 
Fishmonger  he  was  in  lyff  time  here, 
And  twise  Lord  Staior,  as  in  books  appeare; 
Who,  with  courage  stout  and  manly  mygut, 
Slew  Jack  Straw  in  Kyng  Richard's  sight, 
For  which  act  done,  and  trew  entent, 
The  Kyng  made  him  knyght  incontinent ; 
And  gave  him  armes,  as  here  you  see. 
To  declare  his  fact  and  chivaldrie: 
He  left  this  lyff  the  year  of  our  God 
Thirteen  hondred  fourscore  and  three  odd, 


110  THE  SKETCH-BOOR. 

Adjoining  the  church,  in  a  small  cemetery,  immediately 
under  the  back  windows  of  what  was  once  the  Boar's  Head, 
stands  the  tombstone  of  Robert  Preston,  whilom  drawer 
at  the  tavern.  It  is  now  nearly  a  century  since  this  trusty 
drawer  of  good  liquor  closed  his  bustling  career,  and  was 
thus  quietly  deposited  within  call  of  his  customers.  As  I 
was  clearing  away  the  weeds  from  his  epitaph,  the  little 
sexton  drew  me  on  one  side  with  a  mysterious  air  and  in 
formed  me,  in  a  low  voice,  that  once  upon  a  time,  on  a 
dark  wintry  night,  when  the  wind  was  unruly,  howling  and 
whistling,  banging  about  doors  and  windows,  and  twirling 
weathercocks,  so  that  the  living  were  frightened  out  of 
their  beds,  and  even  the  dead  could  not  sleep  quietly  in 
their  graves,  the  ghost  of  honest  Preston,  who  happened  to 
be  airing  itself  in  the  churchyard,  was  attracted  by  the 
well-known  call  of  "  waiter,"  from  the  Boar's  Head,  and 
made  its  sudden  appearance  in  the  midst  of  a  roaring  club, 
just  as  the  parish  clerk  was  singing  a  stave  from  the  "  mime 
garland  of  Captain  Death,"  to  the  discomfiture  of  sundry 
train-band  captains,  and  the  conversation  of  an  infidel 
attorney,  who  became  a  zealous  Christian  on  the  spot,  and 
was  never  known  to  twist  the  truth  afterwards,  except  in 
the  way  of  business. 

I  beg  it  may  be  remembered,  that  I  do  not  pledge  myself 
for  the  authenticity  of  this  anecdote;  though  it  is  well 
known  that  the  churchyards  and  by-corners  of  this  old 
metropolis  are  very  much  infested  with  perturbed  spirits; 
and  everyone  must  have  heard  of  the  Cock-lane  ghost,  and 
the  apparition  that  guards  the  regalia  in  the  Tower,  which 
has  frightened  so  many  bold  sentinels  almost  out  of  their 
wits. 

Be  all  this  as  it  may,  this  Robert  Preston  seems  to  have 
been  a  worthy  successor  to  the  nimble-tongued  Francis,  who 
attended  upon  the  revels  of  Prince  Hal ;  to  have  been 
equally  prompt  with  his  "anon,  anon,  sir,"  and  to  have 
transcended  his  predecessor  in  honesty;  for  Falstaff,  the 
veracity  of  whose  taste  no  man  will  venture  to  impeach, 

An  error  in  the  fore<;oin;r  inscription  has  been  corrected  by  the  venerable 
Stow:  "  Whereas."  sailh  he.  "  it  hatn  been  far  spread  abroad  by  vulgar  opinion, 
that  the  rebel  smitten  down  so  manfully  by  ISir  William  Walworth,  the  then 
worthy  Lord  .Maior,  was  named  Jack  Straw,  and  not  Wat  Tyler,  I  thought 
Rood  to  reconcile  this  rash  coiiei-ived  doubt  by  such  testimony  as  I  find  in 
ancient  and  yood  records.  The  principal  1<  aders,  or  captains,' of  the  com 
mons,  were  Wat  Tyler,  as  the  first  nmn;  the  second  was  John,  or  Jack,  Straw, 
&c.,  &e."— STOW'S  London. 


THE  BOARS  HEAD  TAVERN,  EA8TCHEAP.        HI 

flatly  accuses  Francis  of  putting  lime  in  his  sack;  whereas, 
honest  Preston's  epitaph  lauds  him  for  the  sobriety  of  his 
conduct,  the  soundness  of  his  wine,  and  the  fairness  of  his 
measure.*  The  worthy  dignitaries  of  the  church,  how 
ever,  did  not  appear  much  captivated  by  the  sober  virtues 
of  the  tapster:  the  deputy  organist,  who  had  a  moist  look 
out  of  the  eye,  made  some  shrewd  remark  on  the  abstemi 
ousness  of  a  man  brought  up  among  full  hogsheads;  and 
the  little  sexton  corroborated  his  opinion  by  a  significant 
wink,  and  a  dubious  shake  of  the  head. 

Thus  far  rny  researches,  though  they  threw  much  light 
in  the  history  of  tapsters,  fishmongers,  and  Lord  Mayors, 
yet  disappointed  me  in  the  great  object  of  my  quest,  the 
picture  of  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern.  No  such  painting  was 
to  be  found  in  the  church  of  St.  Michael's.  "  Marry  and 
amen!"  said  I,  ''here  endeth  my  research!"  So  I  was 
giving  the  matter  up,  with  the  air  of  a  baffled  antiquary, 
when  my  friend  the  sexton,  perceiving  me  to  be  curious 
in  everything  relative  to  the  old  tavern,  offered  to  show  me 
the  choice  vessels  of  the  vestry,  which  had  been  handed 
down  from  remote  times,  when  the  parish  meetings  were 
held  at  the  Boar's  Head.  These  were  deposited  in  the 
parish  club-room,  which  had  been  transferred,  on  the  de 
cline  of  the  ancient  establishment,  to  a  tavern  in  the 
neighborhood. 

A  few  steps  brought  us  to  the  house,  which  stands  No. 
12,  Mile-lane,  bearing  the  title  of  The  Mason's  Arms,  and 
is  kept  by  Master  Edward  Honeyball,  the  "bully-rock"  of 
the  establishment.  It  is  one  of  those  little  taverns  which 
abound  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  and  form  the  centre  of 
gossip  and  intelligence  of  the  neighborhood.  We  entered 
the  bar-room,  which  was  narrow  and  darkling;  for  in 
these  close  lanes  but  few  rays  of  reflected  light  are  enabled 

*  As  this  inscription  is  rife  with  excellent  morality,  I  transcribe  it  for  the  ad 
monition  of  delinquent  tapsters.  It  is,  no  doubt,  the  production  of  some  choice 
spirit,  who  once  frequented  the  Hoar's  Head. 

Bacchus,  to  give  the  toping  world  surprise, 

Produced  one  sober  son,  and  here  he  lies. 

Though  rear'd  among  full  hogsheads,  he  defied 

The  charms  of  wine,  and  every  one  beside. 

O  reader,  if  to  justice  thou  'rt  inclined. 

Keep  honest  Preston  daily  in  thy  mind. 

He  drew  good  wine,  took  care  10  fill  his  pots, 

Had  sundry  virtues  that  excused  his  faults. 

You  that  oh  Bacchus  have  the  like  dependence, 

Pray  copy  Bob,  in  measure  and  attendance, 


112  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

to  struggle  down  to  the  inhabitants,  whose  broad  day  is  a 
best  but  a  tolerable  twilight.     The  room  was  partitionet 
into  boxes,  each  containing  a  table  spread  with   a  cleai 
white  cloth,  ready  for  dinner.     This  showed  that  the  guest 
were  of  the  good  old  stamp,  and  divided  their  day  equally 
for  it  was  but  just  one  o'clock.     At  the  lower  end  of  tin 
room  was  a  clear  coal  fire,  before  which  a  breast  of  laml 
was   roasting.     A   row  of   bright   brass   candlesticks   an( 
pewter  mugs  glistened  along  the  mantelpiece,  and  an  old  I 
fashioned  clock  ticked  in  one  corner.     There  was  some 
thing  primitive  in  this  medley  of  kitchen,  parlor,  and  hall, 
that  carried  me   back  to  earlier  times,  and  pleased  me.! 
The  place,  indeed,  was  humble,  but  everything  had  thail 
look  of  order  and  neatness  which  bespeaks  the  superintend 
ence  of  a  notable  English  housewife.     A  group  of  amphib 
ious   looking  beings,   who  might  be  either   fishermen  01 
sailors,  were  regaling  themselves  in  one  of  the  boxes.     As 
I  was  a  visitor  of  rather  high  pretensions,  I  was  ushered 
into  a  little  misshapen  back  room,  having  at  least  nine 
corners.     It  was  lighted  by  a  sky-light,   furnished    with 
antiquated  leathern  chairs,  and  ornamented  with  the  por 
trait  of  a  fat  pig.     It  was  evidently  appropriated  to  par 
ticular  customers,  and  I  found  a  shabby  gentleman,  in  a 
red  nose,  and  oil-cloth  hat,  seated  in  one  corner,  medi 
tating  on  a  half-empty  pot  of  porter. 

The  old  sexton  had  taken  the  landlady  aside,  and  with 
an  air  of  profound  importance  imparted  to  her  my  errand. 
Darne  Honey  ball  was  a  likely,  plump,  bustling  little  I 
woman,  and  no  bad  substitute  for  that  paragon  of  host 
esses,  Dame  Quickly.  She  seemed  delighted  with  an 
opportunity  to  oblige;  and  hurrying  up  stairs  to  the 
archives  of  her  house,  where  the  precious  vessels  of  the 
parish  club  were  deposited,  she  returned,  smiling  and 
curtseying  with  them  in  her  hands. 

The  first  she  presented  me  was  a  japanned  iron  tobacco- 
box,  of  gigantic  size,  out  of  which,  I  was  told,  the  vestry 
had  smoked  at  their  stated  meetings,  since  time  immemo 
rial;  and  which  was  never  suffered  to  be  profaned  by  vulgar 
hands,  or  used  on  common  occasions.  I  received  it  with 
becoming  reverence;  but  what  was  my  delight,  at  beholding 
on  its  cover  the  identical  painting  of  which  I  was  in  quest! 
There  was  displayed  the  outside  of  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern, 


THE  BOARS  HEAD  TAVERN,  EASTCHEAP.       113 

and  before  the  door  was  to  be  seen  the  whole  convivial 
group,  at  table,  iii  full  revel,  pictured  with  that  wonderful 
fidelity  and  force  with  which  the  portraits  of  renowned 
generals  and  commodores  are  illustrated  on  tobacco-boxes, 
for  the  benefit  of  posterity.  Lest,  however,  there  should 
be  any  mistake,  the  cunning  limner  had  warily  inscribed 
the  names  of  Prince  Hal  and  Falstaff  on  the  bottoms  of 
their  chairs. 

On  the  inside  of  the  cover  was  an  inscription,  nearly  ob 
literated,  recording  that  this  box  was  the  gift  of  Sir  Richard 
Gore,  for  the  use  of  the  vestry  meetings  at  the  Boar's  Head 
Tavern,  and  that  it  was  "  repaired  and  beautified  by  his 
successor,  Mr.  John  Packard,  1767."  Such  is  *  faithful 
description  of  this  august  and  venerable  relic,  and  I  ques 
tion  whether  the  learned  Scriblerius  contemplated  his 
Roman  shield,  or  the  Knights  of  the  Round  Table  the  long- 
sought  sangreal,  with  more  exultation. 

While  I  was  meditating  on  it  with  enraptured  gaze, 
Dame  Honeyball,  who  was  highly  gratified  by  the  interest 
it  excited,  put  in  my  hands  a  drinking  cup  or  goblet,  which 
also  belonged  to  the  vestry,  and  was  descended  from  the  old 
Boar's  Head.  It  bore  the  inscription  of  having  been  the 
gift  of,  Francis  Wythers,  Knight,  and  was  held,  she  told 
me,  in  exceeding  great  value,  being  considered  very 
"antyke."  This  last  opinion  was  strengthened  by  the 
shabby  gentleman  with  the  red  nose,  and  oil-cloth  hat,  and 
whom  I  strongly  suspected  of  being  a  lineal  descendant 
from  the  valiant  Bardolph.  He  suddenly  aroused  from  his 
meditation  on  the  pot  of  porter,  and  casting  a  knowing 
look  at  the  goblet,  exclaimed,  "Ay  ay,  the  head  don't  ache 
now  that  made  that  there  article." 

The  great  importance  attached  to  this  memento  of  ancient 
revelry,  by  modern  churchwardens,  at  first  puzzled  me;  but 
there  is  nothing  sharpens  the  apprehension  so  much  as  anti 
quarian  research;  for  I  immediately  perceived  that  this 
could  be  no  other  than  the  identical  "parcel-gilt  goblet" 
on  which  Falstaff  made  his  loving  but  faithless  vow  to 
Dame  Quickly,  and  which  would,  of  course,  be  treasured 
up  with  care  among  the  regalia  of  her  domains,  as  a  testi 
mony  of  that  solemn  contract.* 

*  Thou  didst  swear  to  me  upon  a  parcel-gilt  goblet,  sitting  in  my  Dolphin 
Chamber,  at  the  round  table,  by  a  sea-coal  fire,  on  Wednesday  in  Whitsun 


114  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Mine  hostess,  indeed,  gave  me  a  long  history  how  the 
goblet  had  been  handed  down  from  generation  to  genera 
tion.  She  also  entertained  me  with  many  particulars  con 
cerning  the  worthy  vestrymen  who  have  seated  themselves 
thus  quietly  on  the  stools  of  the  ancient  roysterers  of  East- 
cheap,  and,  like  so  many  commentators,  uttered  clouds  of 
smoke  in  honor  of  'Shakspeare.  These  I  forbear  to  relate, 
lest  my  readers  should  not  be  as  curious  in  these  matters 
us  myself.  Suffice  it  to  say,  the  neighbors,  one  and  all, 
about  Eastcheap,  believe  that  Ealstaff  and  his  merry  crew 
actually  lived  and  revelled  there.  Nay,  there  are  several 
legendary  anecdotes  concerning  him  still  extant  among 
the  oldest  frequenters  of  the  Mason's  Arms,  which  they 
give  as  transmitted  down  from  their  forefathers;  and  Mr. 
M'Kash,  an  Irish  hair-dresser,  whose  shop  stands  on  the 
site  of  the  old  Boar's  Head,  has  several  dry  jokes  of  Fat 
Jack's,  not  laid  down  in  the  books,  with  which  he  makes 
his  customers  ready  to  die  of  laughter. 

I  now  turned  to  my  friend  the  sexton  to  make  some 
farther  inquiries,  but  I  found  him  sunk  in  pensive  medita 
tion.  His  head  had  declined  a  little  on  one  side;  a  deep 
sigh  heaved  from  the  very  bottom  of  his  stomach,  and, 
though  I  could  not  see  a  tear  trembling  in  his  eye,  yet  a 
moisture  was  evidently  stealing  from  a  corner  of  his  mouth. 
I  followed  the  direction  of  his  eye  through  the  door  which 
stood  open,  and  found  it  fixed  wistfully  on  the  savory 
breast  of  lamb,  roasting  in  dripping  richness  before  the 
fire. 

I  now  called  to  mind,  that  in  the  eagerness  of  my  recon 
dite  investigation  I  was  keeping  the  poor  man  from  his 
dinner.  My  bowels  yearned  with  sympathy,  and  putting  in 
his  hand  a  small  token  of  my  gratitude  and  good-will,  I 
departed  with  a  hearty  benediction  on  him,  Dame  Honey- 
ball,  and  the  parish  club  of  Crooked-lane — not  forgetting 
my  shabby,  but  sententious  friend,  in  the  oil-cloth  hat  and 
copper  nose. 

Thus  I  have  given  a  "tedious  brief"  account  of  this  in 
teresting  research;  for  which,  if  it  prove  too  short  and  un 
satisfactory,  I  can  only  plead  my  inexperience  in  this 

week,  when  the  Prince  broke  thy  head  for  likening  his  father  to  a  singing  man 
of  Windsor;  thou  didst  swear  to  me  then,  as  I  was  washing  thy  wound,  to 
mprry  me,  and  make  me  my  lady,  thy  wife.  Canst  thou  deny  it?— 

Henry  IV.  part  2. 


THE  BOAWS  HEAD  TA  VERN,  EASTCHEAP.        115 

branch  of  literature,  so  deservedly  popular  at  the  present 
clay.  I  am  aware  that  a  more  skillful  illustrator  of  the  im 
mortal  bard  would  have  swelled  the  materials  I  have  touched 
upon  to  a  good  merchantable  bulk,  comprising  the  biog 
raphies  of  William  Wai  worth,  Jack  Straw,  and  Robert 
Preston;  some  notice  of  the  eminent  fishmongers  of  St. 
Michael's;  the  history  of  Eastcheap,  great  and  little;  pri 
vate  anecdotes  of  Dame  Honeyball  and  her  pretty  daughter, 
whom  I  have  not  even  mentioned:  to  say  nothing  of  a 
damsel  tending  the  breast  of  lamb  (and  whom,  by  the 
way,  I  remarked  to  be  a  comely  lass  with  a  neat  foot  and 
ankle);  the  whole  enlivened  by  the  riots  of  Wat  Tyler, 
and- illuminated  by  the  great  fire  of  London. 

All  this  I  leave  as  a  rich  mine  to  be  worked  by  future 
commentators;  nor  do  I  despair  of  seeing  the  tobacco-box, 
and  the  "parcel-gilt  goblet,"  which  I  have  thus  brought  to 
light,  the  subjects  of  future  engravings,  and  almost  as  fruit 
ful  of  voluminous  dissertations  and  disputes  as  the  shield 
of  Achilles,  or  the  far-famed  Portland  vase. 


U6  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATUEE. 

A  COLLOQUY  IK  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

I  know  that  all  beneath  the  moon  decays, 
And  what  by  mortals  in  this  world  is  brought, 
In  time's  great  periods  shall  return  to  nought. 

I  know  that  all  the  muses'  heavenly  layes, 
With  toil  of  sprite  which  are  so  dearly  bought, 
As  idle  sounds  of  few  or  none  are  sought, 

That  there  is  nothing  lighter  than  mere  praise. 

DKUMMOND  OF  HAWTHORNDEN. 

THERE  are  certain  half-dreaming  moods  of  mind,  in 
which  we  naturally  steal  away  from  noise  and  glare,  and 
seek  some  quiet  haunt,  where  we  may  indulge  our  reveries, 
and  build  up  our  air  castles  undisturbed.  In  such  a  mood, 
I  was  loitering  about  the  old  gray  cloisters  of  Westminster 
Abbey,  enjoying  the  luxury  of  wandering  thought  which 
one  is  apt  to  dignify  with  the  name  of  reflection,  Avhen 
suddenly  an  irruption  of  madcap  boys  from  Westminster 
school,  playing  at  foot-ball,  broke  in  upon  the  monastic 
stillness  of  the  place,  making  the  vaulted  passages  and 
mouldering  tombs  echo  with  their  merriment.  I  sought  to 
take  refuge  from  their  noise  by  penetrating  still  deeper  into 
the  solitudes  of  the  pile,  and  applied  to  one  of  the  vergers 
for  admission  to  the  library.  He  conducted  me  through  a 
portal  rich  with  the  crumbling  sculpture  of  former  ages, 
which  opened  upon  a  gloomy  passage  leading  to  the  Chap 
ter-house,  and  the  chamber  in  which  Doomsday  Book  is 
deposited.  Just  within  the  passage  is  a  small  door  on  the 
left.  To  this  the  verger  applied  a  key;  it  was  double 
locked,  and  opened  with  some  difficulty,  as  if  seldom  used. 
We  now  ascended  a  dark  narrow  staircase,  and  passing 
through  a  second  door,  entered  the  library. 

I  found  myself  in  a  lofty  antique  hall,  the  roof  supported 
by  massive  joists  of  old  English  oak.  It  was  soberly  lighted 
bv  a  row  of  Gothic  windows  at  a  considerable  height  from 


f£E  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE- 

the  floor,  and  which  apparently  opened  upon  the  roofs  of 
the  cloisters.  An  ancient  picture  of  some  reverend  digni 
tary  of  the  church  in  his  robes  hung  over  the  fire-place. 
Around  the  hall  and  in  a  small  gallery  were  the  books, 
arranged  in  carved  oaken  cases.  They  consisted  princi 
pally  of  old  polemical  writers,  and  were  much  more  worn 
by  time  than  use,  In  the  centre  of  the  library  was  a  soli 
tary  table,  with  two  or  three  books  on  it,  an  inkstand  with 
out  ink,  and  a  few  pens  parched  by  long  disuse.  The 
place  seemed  fitted  for  quiet  study  and  profound  medita 
tion.  It  was  buried  deep  among  the  massive  walls  of  the 
abbey,  and  shut  up  from  the  tumult  of  the  world.  I  could 
only  hear  now  and  then  the  shouts  of  the  schoolboys  faintly 
swelling  from  the  cloisters,  and  the  sound  of  a  bell  tolling 
for  prayers  that  echoed  soberly  along  the  roofs  of  the 
abbey.  By  degrees  the  shouts  of  merriment  grew  fainter 
and  fainter,  and  at  length  died  away.  The  bell  ceased  to 
toll,  and  a  profound  silence  reigned  through  the  dusky 
hall. 

I  had  taken  down  a  little  thick  quarto,  curiously  bound 
in  parchment,  with  brass  clasps,  and  seated  myself  at  the 
table  in  a  venerable  elbow  chair.  Instead  of  reading,  how 
ever,  I  was  beguiled  by  the  solemn  monastic  air  and  lifeless 
quiet  of  the  place,  into  a  train  of  musing.  As  I  looked 
around  upon  the  old  volumes  in  their  mouldering  covers, 
thus  ranged  on  the  shelves,  and  apparently  never  disturbed 
in  their  repose,  I  could  not  but  consider  the  library  a  kind 
of  literary  catacomb,  where  authors,  like  mummies,  are 
piously  entombed,  and  left  to  blacken  and  moulder  in 
dusty  oblivion. 

How  much,  thought  I,  has  each  of  these  volumes,  now 
thrust  aside  with  such  indifference,  cost  some  aching  head 
— how  many  weary  days!  how  many  sleepless  nights!  How 
have  their  authors  buried  themselves  in  the  solitude  of  cells 
and  cloisters;  shut  themselves  up  from  the  face  of  man,  and 
the  still  more  blessed  face  of  nature;  and  devoted  them 
selves  to  painful  research  and  intense  reflection!  And  all 
for  what?  to  occupy  an  inch  of  dusty  shelf — to  have  the 
titles  of  their  works  read  now  and  then  in  a  future  age,  by 
some  drowsy  churchman,  or  casual  straggler  like  myself; 
and  in  another  age  to  be  lost  even  to  remembrance.  Such 
is  the  amount  of  this  boasted  immortality.  A  mere  tempo- 


118  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

rary  rumor,  a  local  sound;  like  the  tone  of  that  bell  which 
has  just  tolled  among  these  towers,  filling  the  ear  for  a  mo 
ment — lingering  transiently  in  echo — and  then  passing 
away,  like  a  thing  that  was  not! 

While  I  sat  half-murmuring,  half-meditating  these  un 
profitable  speculations,  with  my  head  resting  on  my  hand, 
I  was  thrumming  with  the  other  hand  upon  the  quarto, 
until  I  accidentally  loosened  the  clasps;  when,  to  my  utter 
astonishment,  the  little  book  gave  two  or  three  yawns,  like 
one  awaking  from  a  deep  sleep;  then  a  husky  hem,  and  at 
length  began  to  talk.  At  first  its  voice  was  very  hoarse 
and  broken,  being  much  troubled  by  a  cobweb  which  some 
studious  spider  had  woven  across  it,  and  having  probably 
contracted  a  cold  from  long  exposure  to  the  chills  and 
damps  of  the  abbey.  In  a  short  time,  however,  it  became 
more  distinct,  and  I  soon  found  it  an  exceedingly  fluent 
conversable  little  tome.  Its  language,  to  be  sure,  was 
rather  quaint  and  obsolete,  and  its  pronunciation  what  in 
the  present  day  would  be  deemed  barbarous;  but  I  shall 
endeavor,  as  far  as  I  am  able,  to  render  it  in  modern  par 
lance. 

It  began  with  railings  about  the  neglect  of  the  world — 
about  merit  being  suffered  to  languish  in  obscurity,  and 
other  such  commonplace  topics  of  literary  repining,  and 
complained  bitterly  that  it  had  not  been  opened  for  more 
than  two  centuries; — that  the  Dean  only  looked  now  and 
then  into  the  library,  sometimes  took  down  a  volume  or 
two,  trifled  with  them  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  re 
turned  them  to  their  shelves. 

"What  a  plague  do  they  mean,"  said  the  little  quarto, 
which  I  began  to  perceive  was  somewhat  choleric,  "  what 
a  plague  do  they  mean  by  keeping  several  thousand  volumes 
of  us  shut  up  here,  and  watched  by  a  set  of  old  vergers, 
like  so  many  beauties  in  a  harem,  merely  to  be  looked  at 
now  and  then  by  the  Dean?  Books  were  written  to  give 
pleasure  and  to  be  enjoyed;  and  I  would  have  a  rule  passed 
that  the  Dean  should  pay  eacli  of  us  a  visit  at  least  once  a 
year;  or  if  he  is  not  equal  to  the  task,  let  them  once  in  a  while 
turn  loose  the  whole  school  of  Westminster  among  us,  that 
at  any  rate  we  may  now  and  then  have  an  airing." 

"'Softly,  my  worthy  friend,"  replied  I,  "you  are  not 
aware  how  much  better  you  are  off  than  most  books  of 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE.  119 

your  generation.  By  being  stored  away  in  this  ancient 
library,  you  are  like  the  treasured  remains  of  those  saints 
and  monarchs  which  lie  enshrined  in  the  adjoining  chapels; 
while  the  remains  of  their  contemporary  mortals,  left  to 
the  ordinary  course  of  nature,  have  long  since  returned  to 
dust.'; 

"  Sir,"  said  the  little  tome,  ruffling  his  leaves  and  look 
ing  big,  "  I  was  written  for  all  the  world,  not  for  the  book 
worms  of  an  abbey.  I  was  intended  to  circulate  from 
hand  to  hand,  like  other  great  contemporary  works;  but 
here  have  I  been  clasped  up  for  more  than  two  centuries, 
and  might  have  silently  fallen  a  prey  to  these  worms  that 
are  playing  the  very  vengeance  with  my  intestines,  if  you 
had  not  by  chance  given  me  an  opportunity  of  uttering  a 
few  last  words  before  I  go  to  pieces." 

"  My  good  friend,"  rejoined  I,  "  had  you  been  left  to  the 
circulation  of  which  you  speak,  you  would  long  ere  this 
have  been  no  more.  To  judge  from  your  physiognomy, 
you  are  now  well  stricken  in  years;  very  few  of  your  con 
temporaries  can  be  at  present  in  existence;  and  those  few 
owe  their  longevity  to  being  immured  like  yourself  in  old 
libraries;  which,  suffer  me  to  add,  instead  of  likening  to 
harems,  you  might  more  properly  and  gratefully  have 
compared  to  those  infirmaries  attached  to  religious  estab 
lishments,  for  the  benefit  of  the  old  and  decrepit,  and 
where,  by  quiet  fostering  and  no  employment,  they  often 
endure  to  an  amazingly  good-for-nothing  old  age.  You 
talk  of  your  contemporaries  as  if  in  circulation — where  do 
we  meet  with  their  works? — what  do  we  hear  of  Eobert 
Groteste  of  Lincoln?  No  one  could  have  toiled  harder 
than  he  for  immortality.  He  is  said  to  have  written  nearly 
two  hundred  volumes.  He  built,  as  it  were,  a  pyramid  of 
books  to  perpetuate  his  name:  but,  alas!  the  pyramid  has 
long  since  fallen,  and  only  a  few  fragments  are  scattered  in 
various  libraries,  where  they  are  scarcely  disturbed  even  by 
the  antiquarian.  What  do  we  hear  of  Giraldus  Cambren- 
sis,  the  historian,  antiquary,  philospher,  theologian,  and 
poet?  He  declined  two  bishoprics  that  he  might  shut  him 
self  up  and  write  for  posterity;  but  posterity  never  inquires 
after  his  labors.  What  of  Henry  Huntingdon,  who,  be 
sides  a  learned  history  of  England,  wrote  a  treatise  on  the 
contempt  of  the  world,  which  the  world  has  revenged  by 


120  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

forgetting  him?  What  is  quoted  of  Joseph  of  Exeter, 
styled  the  miracle  of  his  age  in  classical  composition?  Of 
his  three  great  heroic  poems,  one  is  lost  forever,  excepting 
a  mere  fragment;  the  others  are  only  known  to  a  few  of 
the  curious  in  literature;  and  as  to  his  love  verses  and  epi 
grams,  they  have  entirely  disappeared.  What  is  in  current 
use  of  John  Wallis,  the  Franciscan,  who  acquired  the  name 
of  the  tree  of  life? — of  William  of  Malmsbury;  of  Simeon 
of  Durham;  of  Benedict  of  Peterborough;  of  John  Hanvill 
of  St.  Albans;  of " 

"  Prithee,  friend/'  cried  the  quarto  in  a  testy  tone, 
"how  old  do  you  think  me?  You  are  talking  of  authors 
that  lived  long  before  my  time,  and  wrote  either  in  Latin 
or  French,  so  that  they  in  a  manner  expatriated  themselves, 
and  deserved  to  be  forgotten;*  but  I,  sir,  was  ushered 
into  the  world  from  the  press  of  the  renowned  Wynkyn  de 
Worde.  I  was  written  in  my  own  native  tongue,  at  a  time 
when  the  language  had  become  fixed;  and,  indeed,  I  was 
considered  a  model  of  pure  and  elegant  English." 

[I  should  observe  that  these  remarks  were  couched  in 
such  intolerably  antiquated  terms,  that  I  have  had  infinite 
difficulty  in  rendering  them  in  modern  phraseology.] 

"I  cry  you  mercy,"  said  I,  "for  mistaking  your  age; 
but  it  matters  little;  almost  all  the  writers  of  your  time 
have  likewise  passed  into  forgetfulness;  and  De  Worde's 
publications  are  mere  literary  rarities  among  book-collectors. 
The  purity  and  stability  of  language,  too,  on  which  you 
found  your  claims  to  perpetuity,  have  been  the  fallacious 
dependence  of  authors  of  every  age,  even  back  to  the  times 
of  the  worthy  Robert  of  Gloucester,  who  wrote  his  history 
in  rhymes  of  mongrel  Saxon,  f  Even  now,  many  talk  of 
Spenser's  '  well  of  pure  English  undefiled/  as  if  the  language 
ever  sprang  from  a  well  or  fountain-head,  and  was  not 

*  In  Latin  and  French  hath  many  soueraine  wittes  had  great  delyte  to 
endyte,  and  have  many  noble  things  fulfilde,  but  certes  there  ben  some  that 
speaken  their  poisye  in  French,  of  which  speche  the  Frenchmen  have  as  good 
a  fantasye  as  we  have  in  hearing  of  Frenchmen's  Englishe. 

CHAUCER'S  Testament  of  Love. 

+  Holinshed,  in  his  Chronicle,  observes,  "afterwards,  also,  by  diligent  travell 
of  Jeffry  Chaucer  and  John  Gowrie,  in  the  time  of  Richard  the  Second,  and 
after  them  of  John  Scogan  and  John  Lydgate,  monke  of  Berrie,  our  said  toong 
was  brought  to  an  excellent  passe,  notwithstanding  that  it  never  came  unto 
the  type  of  perfection  until  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  wherein  John  Jewell, 
Bishop  of  Sarum,  John  Fox,  and  sundrie  learned  and  excellent  writers,  have 
fully  accomplished  the  ornature  of  the  same  to  their  great  praise  and  immortal 
commendation." 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE.  121 

rather  a  mere  confluence  of  various  tongues  perpetually 
subject  to  changes  and  intermixtures.  It  is  this  which  has 
made  English  literature  so  extremely  mutable,  and  the 
reputation  built  upon  it  so  fleeting.  Unless  thought  can 
be  committed  to  something  more  permanent  and  unchange 
able  than  such  a  medium,  even  thought  must  share  the  fate 
of  everything  else,  and  fall  into  decay.  This  should  serve 
as  a  check  upon  the  vanity  and  exultation  of  the  most  pop 
ular  writer.  He  finds  the  language  in  which  he  has  em 
barked  his  fame  gradually  altering,  and  subject  to  the 
dilapidations  of  time  and  the  caprice  of  fashion.  He  looks 
back,  and  beholds  the  early  authors  of  his  country,  once 
the  favorites  of  their  day,  supplanted  by  modern  writers; 
a  few  short  ages  have  covered  them  with  obscurity,  and 
their  merits  can  only  be  relished  by  the  quaint  taste  of  the 
bookworm.  And  such,  he  anticipates,  will  be  the  fate  of 
his  own  work,  which,  however  it  may  be  admired  in  its  day, 
and  help  as  a  model  of  purity,  will,  in  the  course  of  years, 
grow  antiquated  and  obsolete,  until  it  shall  become  almost 
as  unintelligible  in  its  native  land  as  an  Egyptian  obelisk, 
or  one  of  those  Runic  inscriptions,  said  to  exist  in  the  des 
erts  of  Tartary.  I  declare,"  added  I,  with  some  emotion, 
"when  I  contemplate  a  modern  library,  filled  with  new 
works  in  all  the  bravery  of  rich  gilding  and  binding,  I  feel 
disposed  to  sit  down  and  weep;  like  the  good  Xerxes,  when 
he  surveyed  his  army,  pranked  out  in  all  the  splendor  of 
military  array,  and  reflected  that  in  one  hundred  years  not 
one  of  them  would  be  in  existence!" 

"Ah, "said  the  little  quarto  with  a  heavy  sigh,  "I  see 
how  it  is;  these  modern  scribblers  have  superseded  all  the 
good  old  authors.  I  suppose  nothing  is  read  nowadays  but 
Sir  Philip  Sidney's  Arcadia,  Sackville's  stately  plays  and 
Mirror  for  Magistrates,  or  the  fine-spun  euphuisms  of  the 
'unparalleled  John  Lyly." 

"There  you  are  again  mistaken,"  said  I;  "the  writers 
whom  you  suppose  in  vogue,  because  they  happened  to  be 
so  when  you  were  last  in  circulation,  have  long  since  had 
their  day.  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  Arcadia,  the  immortality  of 
which  was  so  fondly  predicted  by  his  admirers,*  and  which, 

*  "  Live  ever  sweete  booke;  the  simple  image  of  his  gentle  witt,  and  the 
golden  pillar  of  his  noble  courage;  and  ever  notify  unto  the  world  that  thy 
writer  was  the  secretary  of  eloquence,  the  breath  of  the  muses,  the  honey  bei 


122  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

in  truth,  was  full  of  noble  thoughts,  delicate  images,  and 

fraceful  turns  of  language,  is  now  scarcely  ever  mentioned, 
ackvillehas  strutted  into  obscurity;  and  even  Lyly,  though 
his  writings  were  once  the  delight  of  a  court,  and  appar 
ently  perpetuated  by  a  proverb,  is  now  scarcely  known  even 
by  name.  A  whole  crowd  of  authors  who  wrote  and 
wrangled  at  the  time,  have  likewise  gone  down  with  all 
their  writings  and  their  controversies.  Wave  after  wave 
of  succeeding  literature  has  rolled  over  them,  until  they 
are  buried  so  deep,  that  it  is  only  now  and  then  that  some 
industrious  diver  after  fragments  of  antiquity  brings  up  a 
specimen  for  the  gratification  of  the  curious. 

"  For  my  part,"  I  continued,  "  I  consider  this  mutability 
of  language  a  wise  precaution  of  Providence  for  the  benefit 
of  the  world  at  large,  and  of  authors  in  particular.  To 
reason  from  analogy,  we  daily  behold  the  varied  and 
beautiful  tribes  of  vegetables  spring  up,  flourishing,  adorn 
ing  the  fields  for  a  short  time,  and  then  fading  into  dust, 
to  make  way  for  their  successors.  Were  not  this  the  case, 
the  fecundity  of  nature  would  be  a  grievance  instead  of  a 
blessing;  the  earth  would  groan  with  rank  and  excessive 
vegetation,  and  its  surface  become  a  tangled  wilderness. 
In  like  manner,  the  works  of  genius  and  learning  decline 
and  make  way  for  subsequent  productions.  Language 
gradually  varies,  and  with  it  fade  away  the  writings  of 
authors  who  have  flourished  their  allotted  time:  otherwise 
the  creative  powers  of  genius  would  overstock  the  world, 
and  the  mind  would  be  completely  bewildered  in  the  endless 
mazes  of  literature.  Formerly  there  were  some  restraints 
on  this  excessive  multiplication:  works  had  to  be  transcribed 
by  hand,  which  was  a  slow  and  laborious  operation;  they 
were  written  either  on  parchment,  which  was  expensive,  so 
that  one  work  was  often  erased  to  make  way  for  another; 
or  on  papyrus,  which  was  fragile  and  extremely  perishable. 
Authorship  was  a  limited  and  unprofitable  craft,  pursued 
chiefly  by  monks  in  the  leisure  and  solitude  of  their  cloisters. 
The  accumulation  of  manuscripts  was  slow  and  costlj7,  and 
confined  almost  entirely  to  monasteries.  To  these  circum 
stances  it  may,  in  some  measure,  be  owing  that  we  have 

of  the  daintyest  flowers  of  witt  and  arte,  the  pith  of  morale  and  the  intellectual 
virtues,  the  arme  of  Bellona  in  the  field,  the  tongue  of  Suada  in  the  chamber, 
the  spirite  of  Practise  in  esse,  aud  the  paragon  of  excellency  in  print." 

HAKVBY'S  Pierce's  Supererogation. 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE.  123 

not  been  inundated  by  the  intellect  of  antiquity;  that  the 
fountains  of  thought  have  not  been  broken  up,  and  modern 
genius  drowned  in  the  deluge.  But  the  inventions  of  paper 
and  the  press  have  put  an  end  to  all  these  restraints;  they 
have  made  every  one  a  writer,  and  enabled  every  mind  to 
pour  itself  into  print,  and  diffuse  itself  over  the  whole  in 
tellectual  world.  The  consequences  are  alarming.  The 
stream  of  literature  has  swollen  into  a  torrent — augmented 
into  a  river — expanded  into  a  sea.  A  few  centuries  since, 
five  or  six  hundred  manuscripts  constituted  a  great  library; 
but  what,  would  you  say  to  libraries,  such  as  actually  exist, 
containing  three  .or  four  hundred  thousand  volumes;  legions 
of  authors  at  the  same  time  busy;  and  a  press  going  on 
with  fearfully  increasing  activity,  to  double  and  quadruple 
the  number  ?  Unless  some  unforeseen  mortality  should 
break  out  among  the  progeny  of  the  Muse,  now  that  she 
has  become  so  prolific,  I  tremble  for  posterity.  I  fear  the 
mere  fluctuation  of  language  will  not  be  sufficient.  Criti 
cism  may  do  much;  it  increases  with  the  increase  of  litera 
ture,  and  resembles  one  of  those  solitary  checks  on  population 
spoken  of  by  economists.  All  possible  encouragement, 
therefore,  should  be  given  to  the  growth  of  critics,  good  or 
bad.  But  I  fear  all  will  be  in  vain;  let  criticism  do  what 
it  may,  writers  will  write,  printers  will  print,  and  the 
world  will  inevitably  be  overstocked  with  good  books.  It 
will  soon  be  the  employment  of  a  lifetime  merely  to  learn 
their  names.  Many  a  man  of  passable  information  at  the 
present  day  reads  scarcely  anything  but  reviews,  and  before 
long  a  man  of  erudition  will  be  little  better  than  a  mere 
walking  catalogue." 

"  My  very  good  sir,"  said  the  little  quarto,  yawning  most 
drearily  in  my  face,  "  excuse  my  interrupting  you,  but  I 
perceive  yon  are  rather  given  to  prose.  I  would  ask  the 
fate  of  an  author  who  was  making  some  noise  just  as  I  left 
the  world.  His  reputation,  however,  was  considered  quite 
temporary.  The  learned  shook  their  heads  at  him,  for  he 
was  a  poor,  half -educated  varlet,  that  knew  little  of  Latin, 
and  nothing  of  Greek,  and  had  been  obliged  to  run  the 
country  for  deer-stealing.  I  think  his  name  was  Shaks- 
peare.  I  presume  he  soon  sunk  into  oblivion." 

"On  the  contrary/' said  I,  "it  is  owing  to  that  very 
man  that  the  literature  of  his  period  has  experienced  § 


124  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

duration  beyond  the  ordinary  term  of  English  literature.  ; 
There  arise  authors  now  and  then,  who  seem  proof  against 
the  mutability  of  language,  because  they  have  rooted  them 
selves  in  the  unchanging  principles  of  human  nature. 
They  are  like  gigantic  trees  that  we  sometimes  see  on  the 
banks  of  a  stream,  which,  by  their  vast  and  deep  roots, 
penetrating  through  the  mere  surface,  and  laying  hold  on 
the  very  foundations  of  the  earth,  preserve  the  soil  around 
them  from  being  swept  away  by  the  overflowing  current, 
and  hold  up  many  a  neighboring  plant,  and,  perhaps, 
worthless  weed,  to  perpetuity.  Such  is  the  case  with 
Shakspeare,  whom  we  behold,  defying  the  encroachments 
of  time,  retaining  in  modern  use  the  language  and  litera 
ture  of  his  day,  and  giving  duration  to  many  an  indifferent 
author  merely  from  having  nourished  in  his  vicinity. 
But  even  he,  I  grieve  to  say,  is  gradually  assuming  the  tint 
of  age,  and  his  whole  form  is  overrun  by  a  profusion  of 
com  mentors,  who,  like  clambering  vines  and  creepers, 
almost  bury  the  noble  plant  that  upholds  them." 

Here  the  little  quarto  began  to  heave  his  sides  and 
chuckle,  until  at  length  he  broke  out  into  a  plethoric  fit  of 
laughter  that  had  well  nigh  choked  him  by  reason  of  his 
excessive  corpulency.  "Mighty  well!"  cried  he,  as  soon  as 
he  could  recover  breath,  "mighty  well!  and  so  you  would 
persuade  me  that  the  literature  of  an  age  is  to  be  perpetu 
ated  by  a  vagabond  deer-stealer!  by  a  man  without  learning! 
by  a  poet!  forsooth — a  poet!"  And  here  he  wheezed  forth 
another  fit  of  laughter. 

I  confess  that  I  felt  somewhat  nettled  at  this  rudeness, 
which,  however,  I  pardoned  on  account  of  his  having  flour 
ished  in  a  less  polished  age.  I  determined,  nevertheless, 
not  to  give  up  my  point. 

"  Yes,"  resumed  I  positively,  "a  poet;  for  of  all  writers 
he  has  the  best  chance  for  immortality.  Others  may  write 
from  the  head,  but  he  writes  from  the  heart,  and  the  heart 
will  always  understand  him.  He  is  the  faithful  portrayer 
of  Nature,  whose  features  are  always  the  same,  and  always 
interesting.  Prose  writers  are  voluminous  and  unwieldy; 
their  pages  crowded  with  commonplaces,  and  their 
thoughts  expanded  into  tediousness.  But  with  the  true 
poet  everything  is  terse,  touching,  or  brilliant.  He  gives 
the  choicest  thoughts  in  the  choicest  language.  He  illus- 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE.  125 

rates  them  by  everything  that  he  sees  most  striking  in 
lature  and  art.  Ho  enriches  them  by  pictures  of  human 
ife,  such  as  is  passing  before  him.  His  writings,  there- 
ore,  contain  the  spirit,  the  aroma,  if  I  may  use  the  phrase, 
>f  the  age  in  which  he  lives.  They  are  caskets  which  in- 
;lose  within  a  small  compass  the  wealth  of  the  language — 
ts  family  jewels,  which  are  thus  transmitted  in  a  portable 
'orrn  to  posterity.  The  setting  may  occasionally  be  anti 
quated,  and  require  now  and  then  to  be  renewed,  as  in  the 
case  of  Chaucer;  but  the  brilliancy  and  intrinsic  value  of 
the  gems  continue  unaltered.  Cast  a  look  back  over  the 
long  reach  of  literary  history.  What  vast  valleys  of  dull 
ness,  filled  with  monkish  legends  and  .academical  contro 
versies!  What  bogs  of  theological  speculations!  What 
dreary  wastes  of  metaphysics!  Here  and  there  only  do  we 
behold  the  heaven-illumined  bards,  elevated  like  beacons  on 
their  widely-separated  heights,  to  transmit  the  pure  light  of 
poetical  intelligence  from  age  to  age."* 

I  was  just  about  to  launch  forth  into  eulogiumsupon  the 
poets  of  the  day,  when  the  sudden  opening  of  the  door 
caused  me  to  turn  my  head.  It  was  the  verger,  who  came 
to  inform  me  that  it  was  time  to  close  the  library.  I 
sought  to  have  a  parting  word  with  the  quarto,  but  the 
worthy  little  tome  was  silent;  the  clasps  were  closed;  and  it 
looked  perfectly  unconscious  of  all  that  had  passed.  I  have 
been  to  the  library  two  or  three  times  since,  and  have  en 
deavored  to  draAV  it  into  further  conversation,  but  in  vain; 
and  whether  all  this  rambling  colloquy  actually  took  place, 
or  whether  it  was  another  of  those  odd  day-dreams  to 
which  I  am  subject,  I  have  never,  to  this  moment,  been 
able  to  discover. 

*  Thorow  earth,  and  waters  deepe, 

The  pen  by  skill  doth  passe: 
And  featly  nyps  the  worldes  abuse, 

And  shoes  us  in  a  glasse, 
The  vertu  and  the  vice 

Of  every  wight  alyve  ; 
The  honey  combe  that  bee  doth  make 

Is  not  so  sweet  in  hyve, 
As  are  the  golden  leves 

That  drops  from  poet's  head, 
Which  doth  surmount  our  common  talke, 

Farre  as  dross  doth  lead. 

CHUBCHYABD. 


126  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


RURAL  FUNERALS. 

Here's  a  few  flowers  !  but  about  midnight  more 
The  herbs  that  have  on  them  cold  dew  o'  the  night 
'  Are  strewings  fitt'st  for  graves  - 
You  were  as  flowers  now  withered  :  even  so 
These  herb'lets  shall,  which  we  upon  you  strow. 

CYMBELINE. 


the  beautiful  and  simple-hearted  customs  of  rural 
life,  which  still  linger  in  some  parts  of  England,  are  those;' 
of  strewing  flowers  before  the  funerals  and  planting  them's 
at  the  graves  of  departed  friends.  These,  it  is  said,  are] 
the  remains  of  some  of  the  rites  of  the  primitive  church;] 
but  they  are  of  still  higher  antiquity,  having  been  ob-| 
served  among  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  and  frequently  men-] 
tioned  by  their  writers,  and  were,  no  doubt,  the  spontane-' 
ous  tributes  of  unlettered  affection,  originating  long  before 
art  had  tasked  itself  to  modulate  sorrow  into  song,  or  story] 
it  on  the  monument.  They  are  now  only  to  be  met  with  in; 
the  most  distant  and  retired  places  of  the  kingdom,  where 
fashion  and  innovation  have  not  been  able  to  throng  in,  : 
and  trample  out  all  the  curious  and  interesting  traces  of 
the  olden  time. 

In  Glamorganshire,  we  are  told,  the  bed  whereon  the 
corpse  lies  is  covered  with  flowers,  a  custom  alluded  to  in 
one  of  the  wild  and  plaintive  ditties  of  Ophelia: 

White  his  shroud  as  the  mountain  snow, 

Larded  all  with  sweet  flowers; 
Which  be-wept  to  the  grave  did  go, 

With  true  love  showers. 

There  is  also  a  most  delicate  and  beautiful  rite  observed 
in  some  of  the  remote  villages  of  the  south,  at  the  funeral 
of  a  female  who  has  died  young  and  unmarried.  A  chaplet 
of  white  flowers  is  borne  before  the  corpse  by  a  young  girl, 
nearest  in  age,  size,  and  resemblance,  and  is  afterwards 
bung  up  in  the  church  over  the  accustomed  seat  of  the  de* 


RURAL  FfftfERALS.  12? 

ceased.  These  chaplets  are  sometimes  made  of  white  paper, 
11  imitation  of  flowers,  and  inside  of  them  is  generally  a 
pair  of  white  gloves.  They  are  intended  as  emblems  of  the 
purity  of  the  deceased,  and  the  crown  of  glory  which  she 
lias  received  in  heaven. 

In  some  parts  of  the  country,  also,  the  dead  are  carried 
to  the  grave  with  the  singing  of  psalms  and  hymns;  a  kind 
of  triumph,  "to  show,"  says  Bourne,  "that  they  have  fin 
ished  their  course  with  joy,  and  are  become  conquerors. " 
This,  I  am  informed,  is  observed  in  some  of  the  northern 
countries,  particularly  in  Northumberland,  and  it  has  a 
pleasing,  though  melancholy  effect,  to  hear,  of  a  still  even 
ing,  in  some  lonely  country  scene,  the  mournful  melody  of 
a  funeral  dirge  swelling  from  a  distance  and  to  see  the  train 
slowly  moving  along  the  landscape. 

Thus,  thus,  and  thus,  we  compass  round 
Thy  harmless  and  unhaunted  ground, 
And  as  we  sing  thy  dirge,  we  will 

The  Daffodill 

And  other  flowers  lay  upon 
The  altar  of  our  love,  thy  stone. 

HEKRICK. 

There  is  also  a  solemn  respect  paid  by  the  traveller  to  the 
passing  funeral,  in  these  sequestered  places;  for  such  spec 
tacles,  occurring  among  the  quiet  abodes  of  Nature,  sink 
deep  into  the  soul.  As  the  mourning  train  approaches,  he 
pauses,  uncovered,  to  let  it  go  by;  he  then  follows  silently 
in  the  rear;  sometimes  quite  to  the  grave,  at  other  times  for 
a  few  hundred  yards,  and  having  paid  this  tribute  of  respect 
to  the  deceased,  turns  and  resumes  his  journey. 

The  rich  vein  of  melancholy  which  runs  through  the 
English  character,  and  gives  it  some  of  its  most  touching 
and  ennobling  graces,  is  finely  evidenced  in  these  pathetic 
customs,  and  in  the  solicitude  shown  by  the  common  peo 
ple  for  an  honored  and  a  peaceful  grave.  The  humblest 
peasant,  whatever  may  be  his  lowly  lot  while  living,  is  anx 
ious  that  some  little  respect  may  be  paid  to  his  remains. 
Sir  Thomas  Overbury,  describing  the  "faire  and  happy 
milkmaid,"  observes,  "  thus  lives  she,  and  all  her  care  is, 
that  she  may  die  in  the  spring  time,  to  have  store  of  flow 
ers  stucke  upon  her  winding  sheet."  The  poets,  too,  who 
always  breathe  the  feeling  of  a  nation,  continually  advert 


128  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

io  this  fond  solicitude  about  the  grave.  In  "  The  Maid's 
Tragedy/'  by  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  there  is  a  beautiful 
instance  of  the  kind  describing  the  capricious  melancholy 
of  a  broken-hearted  girl. 

When  she  sees  a  bank 

Stuck  full  of  flowers,  she,  with  a  sigh,  will  tell 
Her  servants,  what  a  pretty  place  it  were 
To  bury  lovers  in;  and  made  her  maids 
Pluck  'em,  and  strew  her  over  like  a  corse. 

The  custom  of  decorating  graves  was  once  universally 
prevalent;  osiers  were  carefully  bent  over  them  to  keep  the 
turf  uninjured,  and  about  them  were  planted  evergreens 
and  flo-wers.  "We  adorn  their  graves,"  says  Evelyn,  in  his 
Sylvia,  ''with  flowers  and  redolent  plants,  just  emblems  of 
the  life  of  man,  which  has  been  compared  in  Holy  Scrip 
tures  to  those  fading  beauties,  whose  roots  being  buried  in 
dishonor,  rise  again  in  glory."  This  usage  has  now  be 
come  extremely  rare  in  England;  but  it  may  still  be  met 
with  in  the  churchyards  of  retired  villages,  among  the 
Welsh  mountains;  and  I  recollect  an  instance  of  it  at  the 
small  town  of  Ruthven,  which  lies  at  the  head  of  the  beau 
tiful  vale  of  Clewyd.  I  have  been  told  also  by  a  friend, 
who  was  present  at  the  funeral  of  a  young  girl  in  Glamor 
ganshire,  that  the  female  attendants  had  their  aprons  full 
of  flowers,  which,  as  soon  as  the  body  was  interred,  they 
stuck  about  the  grave. 

He  noticed  several  graves  which  had  been  decorated  in 
the  same  manner.  As  the  flowers  had  been  merely  stuck  in 
the  ground,  and  not  planted,  they  had  soon  withered,  and 
might  be  seen  in  various  states  of  decay;  some  drooping, 
others  quite  perished.  They  were  afterwards  to  be  sup 
planted  by  holly,  rosemary,  and  other  evergreens,  which  on 
some  graves  had  grown  to  great  luxuriance,  and  overshad 
owed  the  tombstones. 

There  was  formerly  a  melancholy  fancifulness  in  the  ar 
rangement  of  these  rustic  offerings,  that  had  something  in 
it  truly  poetical.  The  rose  was  sometimes  blended  with  the 
lily,  to  form  a  general  emibleni  of  frail  mortality.  "  This 
sweet  flower/'  said  Evelyn,  "  borne  on  a  branch  set  with 
thorns,  and  accompanied  with  the  lily,  are  natural  hiero- 


RURAL  FUNERALS.  129 

yphics  of  our  fugitive,  umbratile,  anxious,  and  transitory 
fe,  which,  making  so  fair  a  show  for  a  time,  is  not  yet 
ithout  its  thorns  and  crosses."  The  nature  and  color  of 
le  flowers,  and  of  the  ribbons  with  which  they  were  tied, 
ad  often  a  particular  reference  to  the  qualities  or  story  of 
le  deceased,  or  were  expressive  of  the  feelings  of  the 
lourner.  In  an  old  poem,  entitled  "  Corydon's  Doleful 
Inell,"  a  lover  specifies  the  decorations  he  intends  to  use: 

A  garland  shall  be  framed 

By  Art  and  Nature's  skill, 
Of  sundry-colored  flowers, 

In  token  of  good  will. 

And  sundry-colored  ribbons 

On  it  I  will  bestow; 
But  chiefly  blacke  and  yellowe 

With  her  to  grave  shall  go. 

I'll  deck  her  tomb  with  flowers 

The  rarest  ever  seen; 
And  with  my  tears  as  showers 

I'll  keep  them  fresh  and  green. 

The  white  rose,  we  are  told,  was  planted  at  the  grave  of 
virgin;  her  chaplet  was  tied  with  white  ribbons,  in  token 
f  her  spotless  innocence;  though  sometimes  black  ribbons 
rere  intermingled,  to  bespeak  the  grief  of  the  survivors, 
'he  red  rose  was  occasionally  used,  in  remembrance  of  such 
had  been  remarkable  for  benevolence;  but  roses  in 
jneral  were  appropriated  to  the  graves  of  lovers.  Evelyn 
11s  us  that  the  custom  was  not  altogether  extinct  in  his 
me,  near  his  dwelling  in  the  county  of  Surrey,  "  where  the 
aid  ens  yearly  planted  and  decked  the  graves  of  their  de- 
inct  sweethearts  with  rose-bushes."  And  Camdeu  likewise 
marks,  in  his  Brittania:  "  Here  is  also  a  certain  custom, 
aserved  time  out  of  mind,  of  planting  rose-trees  upon  the 
raves,  especially  by  the  young  men  and  maids  who  have 
st  their  loves;  so  that  this  churchyard  is  now  full  of 
lem." 

When  the  deceased  had  been  unhappy  in  their  loves, 
Tiblerns  of  a  more  gloomy  character  were  used,  such  as  the 
BW  and  cypress;  and  if  flowers  were  strewn,  they  were  of 
most  melancholy  colors.  Thus,  in  poems  by  Thomas 
tanley,  Esq.  (published  in  1651),  is  the  following  stanza: 


130  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Yet  strew 

Upon  rny  dismall  grave 
Such  offerings  as  you  have, 

Forsaken  cypresse  and  yewe; 
For  kinder  flowers  can  take  no  birth 
Or  growth  from  such  unhappy  earth. 

In  "  The  Maid's  Tragedy,"  a  pathetic  little  air  is  intro 
duced,  illustrative  of  this  mode  of  decorating  the  funerals 
of  females  who  have  been  disappointed  in  love. 

Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse 

Of  the  dismal  yew, 
Maidens  willow  branches  wear, 

Say  I  died  true. 

My  love  was  false,  but  I  was  firm, 

From  my  hour  of  birth, 
Upon  my  buried  body  lie 

Lightly,  gentle  earth. 

The  natural  effect  of  sorrow  over  the  dead  is  to  refine  anc 
elevate  the  mind;  and  we  have  a  proof  of  it  in  the  purity  oi 
sentiment,  and  the  unaffected  elegance  of  thought,  whicl 
pervaded  the  whole  of  these  funeral  observances.  Thus,  il 
was  an  especial  precaution  that  none  but  sweet-scentec 
evergreens  and  flowers  should  be  employed.  The  intentiot 
seems  to  have  been  to  soften  the  horrors  of  the  tomb,  to  be 
guile  the  mind  from  brooding  over  the  disgraces  of  perish 
ing  mortality,  and  to  associate  the  memory  of  the  deceasec 
with  the  most  delicate  and  beautiful  objects  in  nature. 
There  is  a  dismal  process  going  on  in  the  grave,  ere  dust 
can  return  to  its  kindred  dust,  which  the  imaginatior 
shrinks  from  contemplating;  and  we  seek  still  to  think  ol 
the  form  we  have  loved,  with  those  refined  associations 
which  it  awakened  when  blooming  before  us  in  youth  and 
beauty.  "  Lay  her  i'  the  earth,"  says  Laertes  of  his  virgir 
sister, 

And  from  her  fair  and  unpolluted  flesh 
May  violets  spring. 

Herrick,  also,  in  his  "  Dirge  of  Jephtha,"  pours  forth  i 
fragrant  flow  of  poetical  thought  and  imagery,  which  in  i 
manner  embalms  the  dead  in  the  recollections  of  the  living. 


RURAL  FUNERALS.  131 

Sleep  in  thy  peace,  thy  bed  of  spice, 

And  make  this  place  all  Paradise: 

May  sweets  grow  here!  and  smoke  from  hence 

Fat  frankincense. 

Let  balme  and  cassia  send  their  scent 
From  out  thy  maiden  monument. 

***** 
May  all  shie  maids  at  wonted  hours 
Come  forth  to  strew  thy  tombe  with  flowers! 
May  virgins,  when  they  come  to  mourn, 

Male  incense  burn 
Upon  thine  altar!  then  return 
And  leave  thee  sleeping  in  thy  urn. 

I  might  crowd  my  pages  with  extracts  from  the  older 
British  poets,  who  wrote  when  these  rites  were  more  preva- 
ent,  and  delighted  frequently  to  allude  to  them;  but  I 
lave  already  quoted  more  than  is  necessary.  I  cannot, 
lowever,  refrain  from  giving  a  passage  from  Shakspeare, 
even  though  it  should  appear  trite,  which  illustrates  the 
emblematical  meaning  often  conveyed  in  these  floral 
tributes,  and  at  the  same  time  possesses  that  magic  of 
language  and  appositeness  of  imagery  for  which  he  stands 
pre-eminent. 

With  fairest  flowers, 

Whilst  summer  lasts,  and  I  live  here,  Fidele, 
I'll  sweeten  thy  sad  grave;  thou  shalt  not  lack 
The  flower  that's  like  thy  face,  pale  primrose;  nor 
The  azured  harebell  like-  thy  veins;  no,  nor 
The  leaf  of  eglantine;  whom  not  to  slander, 
Outsweetened  not  thy  breath. 

There  is  certainly  something  more  affecting,  in  these 
prompt  and  spontaneous  offerings  of  nature,  than  in  the 
most  costly  monuments  of  art;  the  hand  strews  the  flower 
while  the  heart  is  warm,  and  the  tear  falls  on  the  grave  as 
affection  is  binding  the  osier  round  the  sod;  but  pathos 
expires  under  the  slow  labor  of  the  chisel,  and  is  chilled 
among  the  cold  conceits  of  sculptured  marble. 

It  is  greatly  to  be  regretted,  that  a  custom  so  truly  ele 
gant  and  touching  has  disappeared  from  general  use,  and 
exists  only  in  the  most  remote  and  insignificant  villages. 
But  it  seems  as  if  poetical  custom  always  shuns  the  walks 
of  cultivated  society.  In  proportion  as  people  grow  polite, 
they  cease  to  be  poetical.  They  talk  of  poetry,  but  they 
have  learnt  to  check  its  free  impulses,  to  distrust  its  sally- 


132  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

ing  emotions,  and  to  supply  its  most  affecting  and  pici 
uresque  usages  by  studied  form  and  pompous  ceremonial 
Few  pageants  can  be  more  stately  and  frigid  than  ai» 
English  funeral  in  town.  It  is  made  up  of  show  am 
gloomy  parade:  mourning  carriages,  mourning  horses 
mourning  plumes,  and  hireling  mourners,  who  make 
mockery  of  grief.  "  There  is  a  grave  digged,"  says  Jerem 
Taylor,  "  and  a  solemn  mourning,  and  a  great  talk  in  th 
neighborhood,  and  when  the  daies  are  finished,  they  shal. 
be,  and  they  shall  be  remembered  no  more."  The  asso 
ciate  in  the  gay  and  crowded  city  is  soon  forgotten:  th: 
hurrying  succession  of  new  inmates  and  new  pleasure 
effaces  him  from  our  minds,  and  the  very  scenes  and  circle 
in  which  he  moved  are  incessantly  fluctuating.  Bu 
funerals  in  the  country  are  solemnly  impressive.  Th 
stroke  of  death  makes  a  wider  space  in  the  village  circle 
and  it  is  an  awful  event  in  the  tranquil  uniformity  of  rurai 
life.  The  passing  bell  tolls  its  knell  in  every  ear;  it  steal 
with  its  pervading  melancholy  over  hill  and  vale,  an> 
saddens  all  the  landscape. 

The  fixed  and  unchanging  features  of  the  country,  alsc 
perpetuate  the  memory  of  the  friend  with  whom  we  one 
enjoyed  them;  who  was  the  companion  of  our  most  retire' 
walks,  and  gave  animation  to  every  lonely  scene.  His  ide 
is  associated  with  every  charm  of  Nature:  we  hear  his  voic 
in  the  echo  which  he  once  delighted  to  awaken;  his  spiri 
haunts  the  grove  which  he  once  frequented;  we  think  c 
him  in  the  wild  upland  solitude,  or  amidst  the  pensiv 
beauty  of  the  valley.  In  the  freshness  of  joyous  mornin. 
we  ren  ember  his  beaming  smiles  and  bounding  gayety 
and  when  sober  evening  returns,  with  its  gathering  shadow 
and  subduing  quiet,  we  call  to  mind  many  a  twilight  hou 
of  gentle  talk  and  sweet-souled  melancholy. 

Each  lonely  place  shall  him  restore, 

For  him  the  tear  be  duly  shed, 
Beloved,  till  life  can  charm  no  more, 

And  mourn'd  till  pity's  self  be  dead. 

Another  cause  that  perpetuates  the  memory  of  the  de 
ceased  in  (  ue  country,  is,  that  the  grave  is  more  immediate! 
in  sight  -  f  the  survivors.  They  pass  it  on  their  way  t 
prayer;  it  meets  their  eyes  when  their  hearts  are  sof tenet 


RURAL  FUNERALS.  133 

by  the  exercise  of  devotion;  they  linger  about  it  on  the 
Sabbath,  when  the  rnincl  is  disengaged  from  worldly  cares, 
and  most  disposed  to  turn  aside  from  present  pleasures  and 
loves,  and  to  sit  down  among  the  solemn  mementos  of  the 
past.  In  North  Wales,  the  peasantry  kneel  and  pray  over 
the  graves  of  their  deceased  friends  for  several  Sundays 
after  the  interment;  and  where  the  tender  rite  of  strewing 
and  planting  flowers  is  still  practiced,  it  is  always  renewed 
on  Easter,  Whitsuntide,  and  other  festivals,  when  the  sea 
son  brings  the  companion  of  former  festivity  more  vividly 
to  mind.  It  is  also  invariably  performed  by  the  nearest 
relatives  and  friends;  no  menials  nor  hirelings  are  employed, 
and  if  a  neighbor  yields  assistance,  it  would  be  deemed  an 
insult  to  offer  compensation. 

I  have  dwelt  upon  this  beautiful  rural  custom,  because, 
as  it  is  one  of  the  last,  so  it  is  one  of  the  holiest  offices  of 
love.  The  grave  is  the  ordeal  of  true  affection.  It  is  there 
that  the  divine  passion  of  the  soul  manifests  its  superiority 
to  the  instinctive  impulse  of  mere  animal  attachment. 
The  latter  must  be  continually  refreshed  and  kept  alive  by 
the  presence  of  its  object;  but  the  love  that  is  seated  in  the 
soul  can  live  on  long  remembrance.  The  mere  inclinations 
of  sense  languish  and  decline  with  the  charms  which  excited 
them,  and  turn  with  shuddering  and  disgust  from  the  dis 
mal  precincts  of  the  tomb;  but  it  is  thence  that  truly  spirit 
ual  affection  rises  purified  from  every  sensual  desire,  and 
returns,  like  a  holy  flame,  to  illumine  and  sanctify  the 
heart  of  the  survivor. 

The  sorrow  for  the  dead  is  the  only  sorrow  from  which 
we  refuse  to  be  divorced.  Every  other  wound  we  seek  to 
heal — every  other  affliction  to  forget;  but  this  wound  we 
consider  it  a  duty  to  keep  open — this  affliction  we  cherish 
and  brood  over  in  solitude.  Where  is  the  mother  who 
would  willingly  forget  the  infant  that  perished  like  a  blossom 
from  her  arms,  though  every  recollection  is  a  pang?  Where 
is  the  child  that  would  willingly  forget  the  most  tender  of 
parents,  though  to  remember  be  but  to  lament  ?  Who, 
even  in  the  hour  of  agony,  would  forget  the  friend  over 
whom  he  mourns?  Who,  even  when  the  tomb  is  closing 
upon  the  remains  of  her  he  most  loved;  when  he  feels  his 
heart,  as  it  were,  crushed  in  the  closing  of  its  portal;  would 
accept  of  consolation  that  must  be  bought  by  lorgetf ulness? 


134  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

— No,  the  love  which  survives  the  tomb  is  one  of  the  noblest 
attributes  of  the  soul.  If  it  has  its  woes,  it  has  likewise  its 
delights;  and  when  the  overwhelming  burst  of  grief  is 
calmed  into  the  gentle  tear  of  recollection — when  the  sud 
den  anguish  and  the  convulsive  agony  over  the  present 
ruins  of  all  that  we  most  loved  is  softened  away  into  pen 
sive  meditation  on  all  that  it  was  in  the  days  of  its  loveliness 
— who  would  root  out  such  a  sorrow  from  the  heart  ? 
Though  it  may  sometimes  throw  a  passing  cloud  over  the 
bright  hour  of  gayety,  or  spread  a  deeper  sadness  over  tbe 
hour  of  gloom,  yet  who  would  exchange  it  even  for  the 
song  of  pleasure  or  the  burst  of  revelry?  No,  there  is  a 
voice  from  the  tomb  sweeter  than  song.  There  is  a  remem 
brance  of  the  dead,  to  which  we  turn  even  from  the  charms 
of  the  living.  Oh,  the  grave! — the  grave! — it  buries  every 
error — covers  every  defect — extinguishes  every  resentment! 
From  its  peaceful  bosom  spring  none  but  fond  regrets  and 
tender  recollections.  Who  can  look  down  upon  the  grave  even 
of  an  enemy  and  not  feel  a  compunctious  throb,  that  he 
should  ever  have  warred  with  the  poor  handful  of  earth 
that  lies  mouldering  before  him? 

But  tbe  grave  of  those  we  loved — what  a  place  for  medi 
tation!  There  it  is  that  we  call  up  in  long  review  the  whole 
history  of  virtue  and  gentleness,  and  the  thousand  endear 
ments  lavished  upon  us  almost  unheeded  in  the  daily  inter 
course  of  intimacy; — there  it  is  that  we  dwell  upon  the  ten 
derness,  the  solemn,  awful  tenderness  of  the  parting  scene. 
The  bed  of  death,  with  all  its  stifled  griefs — its  noiseless 
attendance — its  mute,  watchful  assiduities.  The  last  testi 
monies  of  expiring  love!  The  feeble,  fluttering,  thrilling, 
oh!  how  thrilling!  pressure  of  the  hand.  The  last  fond 
look  of  the  glazing  eye,  turning  upon  us  even  from  the 
threshold  of  existence.  The  faint,  faltering  accents,  strug 
gling  in  death  to  give  one  more  assurance  of  affection! 

Ay,  go  to  the  grave  of  buried  love  and  mediate!  There 
settle  the  account  with  thy  conscience  for  every  past  benefit 
unrequited,  every  past  endearment  unregarded,  of  that  de 
parted  being,  who  can  never — never — never  return  to  be 
soothed  by  thy  contrition! 

If  thou  art  a  child,  and  hast  ever  added  sorrow  to  the 
soul,  or  a  furrow  to  the  silvered  brow  of  an  affectionate 
parent — if  thou  art  a  husband,  and  hast  ever  caused  the 


RURAL  FUNERALS.  135 

fend  bosom  that  ventured  its  whole  happiness  in  thy  arms  to 
ioubt  one  moment  of  thy  kindness  or  thy  truth — if  thou  art 
jfriend,  and  hast  ever  wronged,  in  thought,  word  or  deed,  the 
spirit  that  generously  confided  in  thee — if  thou  art  a  lover 
and  hast  ever  given  one  unmerited  pang  to  that  true  heart 
which  now  lies  cold  and  still  beneath  thy  feet;  then  be  sure 
;hat  every  unkind  look,  every  ungracious  word,  every  un 
gentle  action,  will  come  thronging  back  upon  thy  memory, 
ind  knocking  dolefully  at  the  soul — then  be  sure  that  thou 
wilt  lie  down  sorrowing  and  repentant  on  the  grave,  and 
utter  the  unheard  groan,  and  pour  the  unavailing  tear — 
more  deep,  more  bitter,  because  unheard  and  unavailing. 

Then  weave  thy  chaplet  of  flowers,  and  strew  the  beau 
ties  of  nature  about  the  grave;  console  thy  broken  spirit,  if 
;hou  canst,  with  these  tender,  yet  futile  tributes  of  regret; 
— but  take  warning  by  the  bitterness  of  this  thy  contrite 
affliction  over  the  dead,  and  henceforth  be  more  faithful 
and  affectionate  in  the  discharge  of  thy  duties  to  the  living. 


ir  writing  the  preceding  article,  it  was  not  intended  to 
jive  a  full  detail  of  the  funeral  customs  of  the  English 
jeasantry,  but  merely  to  furnish  a  few  hints  and  quotations 
llustrative  of  particular  rites,  to  be  appended,  by  way  of 
note,  to  another  paper,  which  has  been  withheld.  The  ar- 
;icle  swelled  insensibly  into  its  present  form,  and  this  is 
mentioned  as  an  apology  for  so  brief  and  casual  a  notice  of 
;hese  usages,  after  they  have  been  amply  and  learnedly  in 
vestigated  in  other  works. 

I  must  observe,  also,  that  I  am  well  aware  that  this  cus- 
;om  of  adorning  graves  with  flowers  prevails  in  other  coun- 
iries  besides  England.  Indeed,  in  some  it  is  much  more 
general,  and  is  observed  even  by  the  rich  and  fashionable; 
>ut  it  is  then  apt  to  lose  its  simplicity,  and  to  degenerate 
nto  affectation.  Bright,  in  his  travels  in  Lower  Hungary, 
iells  of  monuments  of  marble,  and  recesses  formed  for  re- 
iirement,  with  seats  placed  among  bowers  of  green-house 
plants;  and  that  the  graves  generally  are  covered  with  the 
gayest  flowers  of  the  season.  He  gives  a  casual  picture  of 
filial  piety  which  I  cannot  describe,  for  I  trust  it  is  as  use 
ful  as  it  is  delightful  to  illustrate  the  amiable  virtues  of  the 
sex.  "  When  I  was  at  Berlin,"  says  he,  "  I  followed  the 


136  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

celebrated  Iffland  to  the  grave.  Mingled  with  some  pomj 
you  might  trace  much  real  feeling.  In  the  midst  of  th 
ceremony,  my  attention  was  attracted  by  a  young  woma 
who  stood  on  a  mound  of  earth,  newly  covered  with  turl 
which  she  anxiously  protected  from  the  passing  crowd.  1 
was  the  tomb  of  her  parent;  and  the  figure  of  this  atfec 
tionate  daughter  presented  a  monument  more  striking  tha 
the  most  costly  work  of  art." 

I  will  barely  add  an  instance  of  sepulchral  decoratio 
that  I  once  met  with  among  the  mountains  of  Switzerland 
It  was  at  the  village  of  Gersau,  which  stands  on  the  boi 
ders  of  the  lake  of  Luzerne,  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Rigi.  I 
was  once  the  capital  of  a  miniature  republic,  shut  up  be 
tvveen  the  Alps  and  the  lake,  and  accessible  on  the  land  sid 
only  by  foot-paths.  The  whole  force  of  the  republic  di< 
not  exceed  six  hundred  fighting-men,  and  a  few  miles  o 
circumference,  scooped  out,  as  it  were,  from  the  bosom  o 
the  mountains,  comprised  its  territory.  The  village  of  Ger 
sau  seemed  separated  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  re 
tained  the  golden  simplicity  of  a  purer  age.  It  had  a  smal 
church,  with  a  burying  ground  adjoining.  At  the  heads  o 
the  graves  were  placed  crosses  of  wood  or  iron.  On  som< 
were  affixed  miniatures,  rudely  executed,  but  evidently  at 
tempts  at  likenesses  of  the  deceased.  On  the  crosses  w 
hung  chaplets  of  flowers,  some  withering,  others  fresh,  a 
if  occasionally  renewed.  I  paused  with  interest  at  thi 
scene;  I  felt  that  I  was  at  the  source  of  poetical  descrip 
tion,  for  these  were  the  beautiful,  but  unaffected  offering; 
of  the  heart,  which  poets  are  fain  to  record.  In  a  gave 
and  more  populous  place,  I  should  have  suspected  them  t< 
have  been  suggested  by  factitious  sentiment,  derived  frorr 
books;  but  the  good  people  of  Gersau  knew  little  of  books 
there  was  not  a  novel  nor  a  love  poem  in  the  village;  and 
question  whether  any  peasant  of  the  place  dreamt,  while  ht 
was  twining  a  fresh  chaplet  for  the  grave  of  his  mistress 
that  he  was  fulfilling  one  of  the  most  fanciful  rites  of  poet 
ical  devotion,  and  that  he  was  practically  a  poet. 


THE  ZA.ZV  KITCHEN.  137 


THE  INN  KITCHEN. 

Shall  I  uot  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn  ? 

Falstaff. 

DURING  a  journey  that  I  once  made  through  the  Neth 
erlands,  I  had  arrived  one  evening  at  the  Pomme  d'Or, 
the  principal  inn  of  a  small  Flemish  village.  It  was  after 
the  hour  of  the  table  d'hote,  so  that  I  was  obliged  to  make 
a  solitary  supper  from  the  relics  of  its  ampler  board.  The 
weather  was  chilly;  I  was  seated  alone  in  one  end  of  a  great 
gloomy  dining-room,  and  my  repast  being  over,  I  had  the 
prospect  before  me  of  a  long  dull  evening,  without  any  vis 
ible  means  of  enlivening  it.  I  summoned  mine  host,  and 
requested  something  to  read;  he  brought  me  the  whole  lit 
erary  stock  of  the  household,  a  Dutch  family  bible,  an 
almanac  in  the  same  language,  and  a  number  of  old  Paris 
newspapers.  As  I  sat  dozing  over  one  of  the  latter,  read 
ing  old  news  and  stale  criticisms,  my  ear  was  now  and  then 
struck  with  bursts  of  laughter  which  seemed  to  proceed 
from  the  kitchen.  Every  one  that  has  travelled  on  the 
Continent  must  know  how  favorite  a  resort  the  kitchen  of 
a  country  inn  is  to  the  middle  and  inferior  order  of  travel 
lers;  particularly  in  that  equivocal  kind  of  weather  when  a 
fire  becomes  agreeable  toward  evening.  1  threw  aside  the 
newspaper,  and  explored  my  way  to  the  kitchen,  to  take  a 
peep  at  the  group  that  appeared  to  be  so  merry.  It  was 
composed  partly  of  travellers  who  had  arrived  some  hours 
before  in  a  diligence,  and  partly  of  the  usual  attendants 
and  hangers-on  of  inns.  They  were  seated  around  a  great 
burnished  stove,  that  might  "have  been  mistaken  for  an 
altar,  at  which  they  were  worshipping.  It  was  covered 
with  various  kitchen  vessels  of  resplendent  brightness, 
among  which  steamed  and  hissed  a  huge  copper  tea-kettle. 
A  large  lamp  threw  a  strong  mass  of  light  upon  the  group, 
bringing  out  many  odd  features  in  strong  relief.  Its  yel 
low  rays  partially  illumined  the  spacious  kitchen,  dying 


138  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

duskily  away  into  remote  corners;  except  where  they  set 
tled  in  mellow  radiance  on  the  broad  side  of  a  flitch  of 
bacon,  or  were  reflected  back  from  well-scoured  utensils 
that  gleamed  from  the  rnidst  of  obscurity.  A  strapping 
Flemish  lass,  with  long  golden  pendants  in  her  ears,  and 
a  necklace  u  ith  a  golden  heart  suspended  to  it,  was  presid 
ing  priestess  of  the  temple. 

Many  of  the  company  were  furnished  with  pipes,  and; 
most  of  them  with  some  kind  of  evening  potation.  I  found 
their  mirth  was  occasioned  by  anecdotes  which  a  little, 
swarthy  Frenchman,  with  a  dry  weazen  face  and  large 
whiskers,  was  giving  of  his  love  adventures;  at  the  end  of 
each  of  which  there  was  one  of  those  bursts  of  honest  un 
ceremonious  laughter,  in  which  a  man  indulges  in  that; 
temple  of  true  liberty,  an  inn. 

As  I  had  no  better  mode  of  getting  through  a  tedious 
blustering  evening,  I  took  my  seat  near  the  stove,  and' 
listened  to  a  variety  of  travellers'  tales,  some  very  extrava 
gant,  and  most  very  dull.  All  of  them,  however,  have 
faded  from  my  treacherous  memory,  except  one,  which  I 
will  endeavor  to  relate.  I  fear,  however,  it  derived  itsi 
chief  zest  from  the  manner  in  which  it  was  told,  and  the 
peculiar  air  and  appearance  of  the  narrator.  He  was  a 
corpulent  old  Swiss,  who  had  the  look  of  a  veteran  traveller. 
He  was  dressed  in  a  tarnished  green  travelling-jacket,  with 
a  broad  belt  round  his  waist,  and  a  pair  of  overalls  with 
buttons  from  the  hips  to  the  ankles.  He  was  of  a  full, 
rubicund  countenance,  with  a  double  chin,  aquiline  nose, 
and  a  pleasant  twinkling  eye.  His  hair  was  light,  and 
curled  from  under  an  old  green  velvet  travelling-cap,  stuck 
on  one  side  of  his  head.  He  was  interrupted  more  than 
once  by  the  arrival  of  guests,  or  the  remarks  of  his  auditors; 
and  paused,  now  and  then,  to  replenish  his  pipe;  :it  which 
times  he  hud  generally  a  roguish  leer,  and  a  sly  joke,  for 
the  buxom  kitchen  maid. 

I  wish  my  reader  could  imagine  the  old  fellow  lolling  in 
a  huge  arm-chair,  one  arm  a-kimbo,  the  other  holding  a 
curiously  twisted  tobacco-pipe,  formed  of  genuine  ecumi'  de 
mer,  decorated  with  silver  chain  and  silken  tassel — his  head 
cocked  on  one  side,  and  a  whimsical  cut  of  the  eye  occa 
sionally,  as  he  recited  the  following  story: 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  139 


THE  SPECTEE  BRIDEGKOOM. 

A  TKAVELLEB'S  TALE.* 

He  tliat  supper  for  is  diglit, 

He  lyes  full  cold,  I  trow,  this  night! 

Yestreen  to  chamber  I  him  led, 

This  night  Gray-steel  has  made  his  bed! 

SIR  EGER,  SIR  QRAHAME,  and  SIR  GRAY-STEEL. 

ON  the  summit  of  one  of  the  heights  of  the  Odenwald,  a 
wild  and  romantic  tract  of  Upper  Germany,  that  lies  not  far 
from  the  confluence  of  the  Maine  and  the  Rhine,  there  stood, 
many,  many  years  since,  the  Castle  of  the  Baron  Von  Land- 
short.  It  is  now  quite  fallen  to  decay,  and  almost  buried 
among  beech  trees  and  dark  firs;  above  which,  however,  its 
old  watch-tower  may  still  be  seen  struggling,  like  the  former 
possessor  I  have  mentioned,  to  carry  a  high  head,  and  look 
down  upon  a  neighboring  country. 

The  Baron  was  a  dry  branch  of  the  great  family  of  Kat- 
zenellenbogen,t  and  inherited  the  relics  of  the  property,  and 
all  the  pride,  of  his  ancestors.  Though  the  warlike  disposi 
tion  of  his  predecessors  had  much  impaired  the  family  pos 
sessions,  yet  the  Baron  still  endeavored  to  keep  up  some  show 
of  former  state.  The  times  were  peaceable,  and  the  Ger 
man  nobles,  in  general,  had  abandoned  their  inconvenient 
old  castles,  perched  like  eagles'  nests  among  the  moun 
tains,  and  had  built  more  convenient  residences  in  the 
valleys;  still  the  Baron  remained  proudly  drawn  up  in  his 
little  fortress,  cherishing  with  hereditary  inveteracy  all  the 
old  family  feuds;  so  that  he  was  on  ill  terms  with  some  of 
his  nearest  neighbors,  on  account  of  disputes  that  had 
happened  between  their  great-great-grandfathers. 

The  Baron  had  but  one  child,  a  daughter;  but  Nature, 

*  The  erudite  reader,  well  versed  in  jrood-for-nothing  lore,  will  perceive 
that  the  above  Tale  must  have  been  su^fjested  to  the  old  Swiss  by  a  little 
French  anecdote,  of  a  circumstance  said  to  have  taken  place  in  Paris. 

1 1.  «.,  CAT'S  ELBOW— the  name  of  a  family  of  those  parts,  and  very  power 
ful  in  former  times.  The  appellation,  we  are  told,  was  given  in  compliment 
to  a  peerless  dame  of  the  family,  celebrated  for  a  fine  arm. 


140  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

when  she  grants  but  one  child,  always  compensates  by  mak 
ing  it  a  prodigy;  and  so  it  was  with  the  daughter  of  the 
Baron.  All  the  nurses,  gossips,  and  country  cousins,  as 
sured  her  father  that  she  had  not  her  equal  for  beauty  in 
all  Germany;  and  who  should  know  better  than  they? 
She  had,  moreover,  been  brought  up  with  great  care,  un 
der  the  superintendence  of  two  maiden  aunts,  who  had 
spent  some  years  of  their  early  life  at  one  of  the  little  Ger 
man  courts,  and  were  skilled  in  all  the  branches  of  knowledge 
necessary  to  the  education  of  a  fine  lady.  Under  their  in 
structions,  she  became  a  miracle  of  accomplishments.  By 
the  time  she  was  eighteen  she  could  embroider  to  admira 
tion,  and  had  worked  whole  histories  of  the  saints  in 
tapestry,  with  such  strength  of  expression  in  their  counte 
nances  that  they  looked  like  so  many  souls  in  purgatory. 
She  could  read  without  great  difficulty,  and  had  spelled 
her  way  through  several  church  legends,  and  almost  all  the 
chivalric  wonders  of  the  Heldenbuch.  She  had  even  made 
considerable  proficiency  in  writing,  could  sign  her  own 
name  without  missing  a  letter,  and  so  legibly,  that  her 
aunts  could  read  it  without  spectacles.  She  excelled  in 
making  little  good-for-nothing  lady-like  knicknacks  of  all 
kinds;  was  versed  in  the  most  abstruse  dancing  of  the  day; 
played  a  number  of  airs  on  the  harp  and  guitar;  and  knew 
all  the  tender  ballads  of  the  Minnie-Heelers  by  heart. 

Her  aunts,  too,  having  been  great  flirts  and  coquettes  in 
their  younger  days,  were  admirably  calculated  to  be  vigilant 
guardians  and  strict  censors  of  the  conduct  of  their  niece; 
for  there  is  no  duenna  so  rigidly  prudent,  arid  inexorably 
decorous,  as  a  superannuated  coquette.  She  was  rarely 
suffered  out  of  their  sight;  never  went  beyond  the  domains 
of  the  castle,  unless  well  attended,  or  rather  well  watched; 
had  continual  lectures  read  to  1  jr  about  strict  decorum  and 
implicit  obedience;  and,  as  to  the  men — pah  !  she  was 
taught  to  hold  them  at  such  distance  and  distrust,  that, 
unless  properly  authorized,  she  would  not  have  cast  a 
glance  upon  the  handsomest  cavalier  in  the  world — no,  not 
if  he  were  even  dying  at  her  feet. 

The  good  effects  of  this  system  were  wonderfully  apparent. 
The  young  lady  was  a  pattern  of  docility  and  correctness. 
While  others  were  wasting  their  sweetness  in  the  glare  of 
the  world,  and  liable  to  be  plucked  and  thrown  aside  by 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  141 

3very  hand,  she  was  coyly  blooming  into  fresh  and  lovely 
womanhood,  under  the  protection  of  those  immaculate 
spinsters,  like  a  rose-bud  blushing  forth  among  guardian 
thorns.  Her  aunts  looked  apon  her  with  pride  and  exul 
tation,  and  vaunted  that  though  all  the  other  young  ladies 
in  the  world  might  go  astray,  yet,  thank  Heaven,  nothing 
of  the  kind  could  happen  to  the  heiress  of  Katzenellen- 
bogen. 

But  however  scantily  the  Baron  Von  Landshort  might 
be  provided  with  children,  his  household  was  by  no  means 
a  small  one,  for  Providence  had  enriched  him  with  an  abund 
ance  of  poor  relations.  They,  one  and  all,  possessed  the 
affectionate  disposition  common  to  humble  relatives;  were 
wonderfully  attached  to  the  Baron,  and  took  every  possible 
occasion  to  come  in  swarms  and  enliven  the  castle.  All 
family  festivals  were  commemorated  by  these  good  people 
at  the  Baron's  expense;  and  when  they  were  filled  with 

od  cheer,  they  would  declare  that  there  was  nothing  on 
earth  so  delightful  as  these  family  meetings,  these  jubilees 
of  the  heart. 

The  Baron,  though  a  small  man,  had  a  large  soul,  and  it 
swelled  with  satisfaction  at  the  consciousness  of  being  the 
greatest  man  in  the  little  world  about  him.  He  loved  to 
tell  long  stories  about  the  stark  old  warriors  whose  por 
traits  looked  grimly  down  from  the  walls  around,  and  he 
found  no  listeners  equal  to  those  who  fed  at  his  expense. 
He  was  much  given  to  the  marvellous,  and  a  firm  believer 
in  all  those  supernatural  tales  with  which  every  mountain 
and  valley  in  Germany  abounds.  The  faith  of  his  guests 
even  exceeded  his  own:  they  listened  to  every  tale  of 
wonder  with  open  eyes  and  mouth,  and  never  failed  to  be 
astonished,  even  though  repeated  for  the  hundredth  time. 
Thus  lived  the  Baron  Von  Landshort,  the  oracle  of  his 
table,  the  absolute  monarch  of  his  little  territory,  and 
happy,  above  all  things,  in  the  persuasion  that  he  was  tho 
wisest  man  of  the  age. 

At  the  time  of  which  my  story  treats,  there  was  a  great 
family-gathering  at  the  castle,  on  an  affair  of  the  utmost 
importance: — it  was  to  receive  the  destined  bridegroom  of 
the  Baron's  daughter.  A  negotiation  had  been  carried  on 
between  the  father  and  an  old  nobleman  of  Bavaria,  to 
unite  the  dignity  of  their  houses  by  the  marriage  of  their 


142  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

children.  The  preliminaries  had  been  conducted  witfr 
proper  punctilio.  The  young  people  were  betrothed  with* 
out  seeing  each  other,  and  the  time  was  appointed  for  thf 
marriage  ceremony.  The  young  Count  Von  Altenburgj 
had  been  recalled  from  the  army  for  the  purpose,  and  wal 
actually  on  his  way  to  the  Baron's  to  receive  his  bride; 
Missives  had  even  been  received  from  him,  from  Wurtzj 
burg,  where  he  was  accidentally  detained,  mentioning  thq 
day  and  hour  when  he  might  be  expected  to  arrive. 

The  castle  was  in  a  tumult  of  preparation  to  give  him  a 
suitable  welcome.  The  fair  bride  had  been  decked  ouj 
with  uncommon  care.  The  two  aunts  had  superintended 
her  toilet,  and  quarrelled  the  whole  morning  about  everi 
article  of  her  dress.  The  young  lady  had  taken  advantage) 
of  their  contest  to  follow  the  bent  of  her  own  taste;  ana 
fortunately  it  was  a  good  one.  She  looked  as  lovely  as 
youthful  bridegroom  could  desire;  and  the  nutter  of  hen 
expectation  heightened  the  lustre  of  her  charms. 

The  suffusions  that  mantled  her  face  and  neck,  tha 
gentle  heaving  of  the  bosom,  the  eye  now  and  then  lost  iq 
reverie,  all  betrayed  the  soft  tumult  that  was  going  on  in 
her  little  heart.  The  aunts  were  continually  hovering! 
around  her;  for  maiden  aunts  are  apt  to  take  great  interest! 
in  affairs  of  this  nature:  they  were  giving  her  a  world  of! 
staid  counsel  how  to  deport  herself,  what  to  say,  and  in 
what  manner  to  receive  the  expected  lover. 

The  Baron  was  no  less  busied  in  preparations.  He  had, 
in  truth,  nothing  exactly  to  do;  but  he  was  naturally  a; 
fuming,  bustling  little  man,  and  could  not  remain  passive 
when  all  the  world  was  in  a  hurry.  He  worried  from  top^ 
to  bottom  of  the  castle,  with  an  air  of  infinite  anxiety,  he: 
continually  called  the  servants  from  their  work  to  exhort 
them  to  be  diligent,  and  buzzed  about  every  hall  and 
chamber,  as  idly  restless  and  importunate  as  a  blue-bottle 
fly  of  a  warm  summer's  day. 

In  the  meantime,  the  fatted  calf  had  been  killed;  the 
forests  had  rung  with  the  clamor  of  the  huntsmen;  the 
kitchen  was  crowded  with  good  cheer;  the  cellars  had 
yielded  up  whole  oceans  of  Rhem-ivein  and  Fcrne-wein, 
and  even  the  great  Heidelhurgh  tun  had  been  laid  under 
contribution.  Everything  was  ready  to  receive  the  dis 
tinguished  guests  with  tiaus  und  Braus  in  the  true  spirit 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  143 

of  German  hospitality — but  the  guest  delayed  to  make  his 
appearance.  Hour  rolled  after  hour.  The  sun  that  had 
poured  his  downward  rays  upon  the  rich  forest  of  the 
Odenwald,  {now  juat  gleamed  along  the  summits  of  the 
mountains.  The  Baron  mounted  the  highest  tower,  and 
strained  his  eyes  in  hopes  01  catching  a  distant  sight  of  the 
Count  and  his  attendants.  Once  he  thought  he  beheld 
them;  the  sound  of  horns  came  floating  from  the  valley, 
prolonged  by  the  mountain  echoes:  a  number  of  horsemen 
were  seen  far  below,  slowly  advancing  along  the  road;  but 
when  they  had  nearly  reached  the  foot  of  the  mountain, 
they  suddenly  struck  off  in  a  different  direction.  The  last 
ray  of  sunshine  departed — the  bats  began  to  flit  by  in  the 
twilight — the  road  grew  dimmer  and  dimmer  to  the  view; 
and  nothing  appeared  stirring  in  it,  but  now  and  then  a 
peasant  lagging  homeward  from  his  labor. 

While  the  old  castle  of  Landshort  was  in  this  state  of 
perplexity,  a  very  interesting  scene  was  transacting  in  a 
different  part  of  the  Odenwald. 

The  young  Count  Von  Altenburg  was  tranquilly  pur 
suing  his  route  in  that  sober  jog-trot  way  in  which  a  man 
travels  toward  matrimony  when  his  friends  have  taken  all 
the  trouble  and  uncertainty  of  courtship  off  his  hands,  and 
a  bride  is  waiting  for  him,  as  certainly  as  a  dinner,  at  the 
end  of  his  journey.  He  had  encountered  at  Wurtzburg  a 
youthful  companion  in  arms,  with  whom  he  had  seen  some 
service  on  the  frontiers;  Herman  Von  Starkenfaust,  one  of 
the  stoutest  hands  and  worthiest  hearts  of  German  chivalry, 
who  was  now  returning  from  the  army.  His  father's  castle 
was  not  far  distant  from  the  fortress  of  Landshort,  although 
a  hereditary  feud  rendered  the  families  hostile,  and 
strangers  to  each  other. 

In  the  warm-hearted  moment  of  recognition,  the  young 
friends  related  all  their  past  adventures  and  fortunes,  and 
the  Count  gave  the  whole  history  of  his  intended  nuptials 
with  a  young  lady  whom  he  had  never  seen,  but  of  whose 
charms  he  had  received  the  most  enrapturing  descriptions. 

As  the  route  of  the  friends  lay  in  the  same  direction, 
they  agreed  to  perform  the  rest  of  the  journey  together; 
and  that  they  might  do  it  more  leisurely,  set  off  from 
Wurtzburg  at  an  early  hour,  the  Count  having  giving 
directions  for  hia  retinue  to  follow  and  overtake  him. 


144  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

They  beguiled  their  wayfaring  with  recollections  of  their 
military  scenes  and  adventures;  but  the  Count  was  apt  to 
be  a  little  tedious,  now  and  then,  about  the  reputed  charms 
of  his  bride,  and  the  felicity  that  awaited  him. 

In  this  way  they  had  entered  among  the  mountains  of 
the  Odenwald,  and  were  traversing  one  of  its  most  lonely 
and  thickly  wooded  passes.  It  is  well  known  that  the 
forests  of  Germany  have  always  been  as  much  infested  with 
robbers  as  its  castles  by  spectres;  and,  at  this  time,  the 
former  were  particularly  numerous,  from  the  hordes  of  dis 
banded  soldiers  wandering  about  the  country.  It  will  not 
appear  extraordinary,  therefore,  that  the  cavaliers  were  at 
tacked  by  a  gang  of  these  stragglers,  in  the  midst  of  the 
forest.  They  defended  themselves  with  bravery,  but  were 
nearly  overpowered  when  the  Count's  retinue  arrived  to 
their  assistance.  At  sight  of  them  the  robbers  fled,  but 
not  until  the  Count  had  received  a  mortal  wound.  He  was 
slowly  and  carefully  conveyed  back  to  the  city  of  Wurtz- 
burg,  and  a  friar  summoned  from  a  neighboring  convent, 
who  was  famous  for  his  skill  in  administering  to  both  soul 
and  body.  But  half  of  his  skill  was  superfluous;  the 
moments  of  the  unfortunate  Count  were  numbered. 

With  his  dying  breath  he  entreated  his  friend  to  repair 
instantly  to  the  castle  of  Landshort,  and  explain  the  fatal 
cause  of  his  not  keeping  his  appointment  with  his  bride. 
Though  not  the  most  ardent  of  lovers,  he  was  one  of  the 
most  punctilious  of  men,  and  appeared  earnestly  solicit 
ous  that  this  mission  should  be  speedily  and  courteously 
executed.  "Unless  this  is  done,"  said  he,  "I  shall  not 
sleep  quietly  in  my  grave!"  He  repeated  these  last  words 
with  peculiar  solemnity.  A  request,  at  a  moment  so  im 
pressive,  admitted  no  hesitation.  Starkenfaust  endeavored 
to  soothe  him  to  calmness;  promised  faithfully  to  execute 
his  wish,  and  gave  him  his  hand  in  solemn  pledge.  The 
dying  man  pressed  it  in  acknowledgment,  but  soon  lapsed 
into  delirium — raved  about  his  bride — his  engagements — his 
plighted  word;  ordered  his  horse,  that  he  might  ride  to  the 
castle  of  Landshort,  and  expired  in  the  fancied  act  of  vault 
ing  into  the  saddle. 

Starkenfaust  bestowed  a  sigh  and  a  soldier's  tear  on  the 
untimely  fate  of  his  comrade,  and  then  pondered  on  the 
awkward  mission  he  had  undertaken.  His  heart  was  heavy 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  145 

and  his  head  perplexed;  for  he  was  to  present  himself  an 
unbidden  guest  among  hostile  people,  and  to  damp  their 
festivity  with  tidings  fatal  to  their  hopes.  Still  there  \u  .. 
certain  whisperings  of  curiosity  in  his  bosom  to  see  this  fin  - 
famed  beauty  of  Katzenellenbogen,  so  cautiously  shut  up 
from  the  world;  for  he  was  a  passionate  admirer  of  the  sex, 
and  there  was  a  dash  of  eccentricity  and  enterprise  in  his 
character  that  made  him  fond  of  all  singular  adventure. 

Previous  to  his  departure,  he  made  all  due  arrangements 
with  the  holy  fraternity  of  the  convent  for  the  funeral  so 
lemnities  of  his  friend,  who  was  to  be  buried  in  the  cathedral 
of  Wurtzburg,  near  some  of  his  illustrious  relatives  and  the 
mourning  retinue  of  the  Count  took  charge  of  his  re 
mains. 

It  is  now  high  time  that  we  should  return  to  the  ancient 
family  of  Katzenellenbogen,  who  were  impatient  for  their 
guests,  and  still  more  for  their  dinner;  and  to  the  worthy  little 
Baron,  whom  we  left  airing  himself  on  the  watch-tower. 

Night  closed  in,  but  still  no  guest  arrived.  The  Baron 
descended  from  the  tower  in  despair.  The  banquet,  which 
had  been  delayed  from  hour  to  hour,  could  no  longer  be 
postponed.  The  meats  were  already  overdone,  the  cook  in 
an  agony;  and  the  whole  household  had  the  look  of  a  gar 
rison  that  had  been  reduced  by  famine.  The  Baron  was 
obliged  reluctantly  to  give  orders  for  the  feast  without  the 
presence  of  the  guest.  All  were  seated  at  table,  and  just 
on  the  point  of  commencing,  when  the  sound  of  a  horn 
from  without  the  gate  gave  notice  of  the  approach  of  a 
stranger.  Another  long  blast  filled  the  old  courts  of  the 
castle  with  its  echoes,  and  was  answered  by  the  warder  from 
the  walls.  The  Baron  hastened  to  receive  his  future  son- 
in-law. 

The  drawbridge  had  been  let  down,  and  the  stranger  was 
before  the  gate.  He  was  a  tall  gallant  cavalier,  mounted  on 
a  black  steed.  His  countenance  was  pale,  but  he  had  a 
beaming  romantic  eye,  and  an  air  of  stately  melancholy.  The 
Baron  was  a  little  mortified  that  he  should  have  come  in 
this  simple,  solitary  style.  His  dignity  for  a  moment  was 
ruffled,  and  he  felt  disposed  to  consider  it  a  want  of  proper 
respect  for  the  important  occasion,  and  the  important  fam 
ily  with  which  he  was  to  be  connected.  He  pacified  himself, 
however,  with  the  conclusion  that  it  mus*  have  been  youth- 


146  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

f  ul  impatience  which  had  induced  him  thus  to  spur  on  sooner  ; 
than  his  attendants. 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  the  stranger,  "to  break  in  upon  you 
thus  unseasonably — " 

Here  the  Baron  interrupted  him  with  a  world  of  compli-  , 
ments  and  greetings;  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  prided  him-  • 
self  upon  his  courtesy  and  eloquence.  The  stranger  at- 1 
tempted,  once  or  twice,  to  stem  the  torrent  of  words,  butl 
in  vain;  so  he  bowed  his  head  and  suffered  it  to  flow  on.  I 
By  the  time  the  Baron  had  come  to  a  pause,  they  had  I 
reached  the  inner  court  of  the  castle;  and  the  stranger  was  ] 
again  about  to  speak,  when  he  was  once  more  interrupted  j 
by  the  appearance  of  the  female  part  of  the  family,  j 
leading  forth  the  shrinking  and  blushing  bride.  Hel 
gazed  on  her  for  a  moment  as  one  entranced;  it  seemed  ] 
as  if  his  whole  soul  beamed  forth  in  the  gaze,  and  rested  ] 
upon  that  lovely  form.  One  of  the  maiden  aunts  whispered  I 
something  in  her  ear;  she  made  an  effort  to  speak;  her! 
moist  blue  eye  was  timidly  raised,  gave  a  shy  glance  of  in- 1 
quiry  on  the  stranger,  and  was  cast  again  to  the  ground.  3 
The  words  died  away;  but  there  was  a  sweet  smile  playing  J 
about  her  lips,  and  a  soft  dimpling  of  the  cheek,  that  I 
showed  her  glance  had  not  been  unsatisfactory.  It  wasl 
impossible  for  a  girl  of  the  fond  age  of  eighteen,  highly  1 
predisposed  for  love  and  matrimony,  not  to  be  pleased  with! 
so  gallant  a  cavalier. 

The  late  hour  at  which  the  guest  had  arrived,  left  noi 
time  for  parley.  The  Baron  was  peremptory,  and  deferred! 
all  particular  conversation  until  the  morning,  and  led  the* 
way  to  the  un tasted  banquet. 

It  was  served  up  in  the  great  hall  of  the  castle.  Around  { 
the  walls  hung  the  hard-favored  portraits  of  the  heroes  j 
of  the  house  of  Katzenellenbogen,  and  the  trophies  which  1 
they  had  gained  in  the  field  and  in  the  chase.  Hacked  \ 
croslets,  splintered  jousting  spears,  and  tattered  banners,! 
were  mingled  with  the  spoils  of  sylvan  warfare:  the  jaws  of  I 
thje  wolf,  and  the  tusks  of  the  boar,  grinned  horribly  among  j 
crossbows  and  battle-axes,  and  a  huge  pair  of  antlersj 
branched  immediately  over  the  head  of  the  youthful  bride-| 
groom. 

The  cavalier  took  but  little  notice  of  the  company  or  the  j 
entertainment.  He  scarcely  tasted  the  banquet,  but  seemed,! 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  14? 

absorbed  in  admiration  of  his  bride.  He  conversed  in  a 
low  tone,  that  could  not  be  overheard — for  the  language  of 
love  is  never  loud;  but  where  is  the  female  ear  so  dull  that 
it  cannot  catch  the  softest  whisper  of  the  lover?  There 
was  a  mingled  tenderness  and  gravity  in  his  manner  that 
appeared  to  have  a  powerful  effect  upon  the  young  lady. 
Her  color  came  and  went  as  she  listened  with  deep  atten 
tion.  Now  and  then  she  made  some  blushing  reply,  and 
when  his  eye  was  turned  away,  she  would  steal  a  sidelong 
glance  at  his  romantic  countenance,  and  heave  a  gentle 
sigh  of  tender  happiness.  It  was  evident  that  the  young 
couple  were  completely  enamoured.  The  aunts,  who  were 
deeply  versed  in  the  mysteries  of  the  heart,  declared  that 
they  had  fallen  in  love  with  each  other  at  first  sight. 

The  feast  went  on  merrily,  or  at  least  noisily,  for  the 
guests  were  all  blessed  with  those  keen  appetites  that  at 
tend  upon  light  purses  and  mountain  air.  The  Baron  told 
his  best  and  longest  stories,  and  never  had  he  told  them  so 
well,  or  with  such  great  effect.  If  there  was  anything 
marvellous,  his  auditors  were  lost  in  astonishment:  and  if 
anything  facetious,  they  were  sure  to  laugh  exactly  in  the 
right  place.  The  Baron,  it  is  true,  like  most  great  men, 
was  too  dignified  to  utter  any  joke  but  a  dull  one;  it  was 
always  enforced,  however,  by  a  bumper  of  excellent  Hoch- 
heimer;  and  even  a  dull  joke,  at  one's  own  table,  served  up 
with  jolly  old  wine,  is  irresistible.  Many  good  things  were 
said  by  poorer  and  keener  wits,  that  would  not  bear  repeat 
ing,  except  on  similar  occasions;  many  sly  speeches  whis 
pered  in  ladies'  ears,  that  almost  convulsed  them  with  sup 
pressed  laughter;  and  a  song  or  two  roared  out  by  a  poor, 
but  merry  and  broad-faced  cousin  of  the  Baron,  that  abso 
lutely  ma'de  the  maiden  aunts  hold  up  their  fans. 

Amidst  all  this  revelry,  the  stranger  guest  maintained  a 
most  singular  and  unseasonable  gravity.  His  countenance 
assumed  a  deeper  cast  of  dejection  as  the  evening  advanced, 
and,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  even  the  Baron's  jokes 
seemed  only  to  render  him  the  more  melancholy.  At  times 
he  was  lost  in  thought,  and  at  times  there  was  a  perturbed 
and  restless  wandering  of  the  eye  that  bespoke  a  mind  but 
ill  at  ease.  His  conversation  with  the  bride  became  more 
and  more  earnest  and  mysterious.  Lowering  clouds  began 
to  steal  over  the  fair  serenity  of  her  brow,  and  tremors  to 
run  through  her  tender  frame. 


148  TffE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

All  this  could  not  escape  the  notice  of  the  company. 
Their  gayety  was  chilled  by  the  unaccountable  gloom  of  the 
bridegroom;  their  spirits  were  infected;  whispers  and 
glances  were  interchanged,  accompanied  by  shrugs  and 
dubious  shakes  of  the  head.  The  song  and  the  laugh  grew 
less  and  less  frea'ient;  there  were  dreary  pauses  in  the  con 
versation,  which  were  at  length  succeeded  by  wild  tales, 
and  supernatural  legends.  One  dismal  story  produced 
another  still  more  dismal,  and  the  Baron  nearly  frightened 
some  of  the  ladies  into  hysterics  with  the  history  of  the 
goblin  horseman  that  carried  away  the  fair  Leonora — a 
dreadful,  but  true  story,  which  has  since  been  put  into  ex 
cellent  verse,  and  is  read  and  believed  by  all  the  world. 

The  bridegroom  listened  to  this  tale  with  profound  atten 
tion.  He  kept  his  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  the  Baron,  and  as 
the  story  drew  to  a  close,  began  gradually  to  rise  from  his 
seat,  growing  taller  and  taller,  until,  in  the  Baron's  en 
tranced  eye,  he  seemed  almost  to  tower  into  a  giant. 
The  moment  the  tale  was  finished,  he  heaved  a  deep  sigh, 
and  took  a  solemn  farewell  of  the  company.  They  were 
all  amazement.  The  Baron  was  perfectly  thunderstruck. 

"What!  going  to  leave  the  castle  at  midnight?  why, 
everything  was  prepared  for  his  reception;  a  chamber  was 
ready  for  him  if  he  wished  to  retire." 

The  stranger  shook  his  head  mournfully,  and  mys 
teriously;  "  I  must  lay  my  head  in  a  different  chamber  to 
night!" 

There  was  something  in  this  reply,  and  the  tone  in  which 
it  was  uttered,  that  made  the  Baron's  heart  misgive  him; 
but  he  rallied  his  forces,  and  repeated  his  hospitable  en 
treaties.  The  stranger  shook  his  head  silently,  but  posi 
tively,  at  every  offer;  and  waving  his  farewell  to  the  com 
pany,  stalked  slowly  out  of  the  hall.  The  maiden  aunts 
were  absolutely  petrified — the  bride  hung  her  head,  and  a 
tear  stole  to  her  eye. 

The  Baron  followed  the  stranger  to  the  great  court  of 
the  castle,  where  the  black  charger  stood  pawing  the  earth, 
and  snorting  with  impatience.  When  they  had  reached  the 
portal,  whose  deep  archway  was  dimly  lighted  by  a  cresset, 
the  stranger  paused,  and  addressed  the  Baron  in  a  hollow 
tone  of  voice,  which  the  vaulted  roof  rendered  still  more 
sepulchral.  "Now  that  we  are  alone,"  said  he,  "I  will 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  149 

rnpart  to  you  the  reason  of  my  going.  I  have  a  solemn, 
n  indispensable  engagement — " 

"  Why,"  said  the  Baron,  "cannot  you  send  some  one  in 
our  place?'* 

"  It  admits  of  no  substitute — I  must  attend  it  in  person — 

must  away  to  Wurtzburg  cathedral — " 

"Ay,"  said  the  Baron,  plucking  up  spirit,  "but  not 
ntil  to-morrow — to-morrow  you  shall  take  your  bride 
here." 

"No!  no!"  replied  the  stranger,  with  tenfold  solemnity, 
'  my  engagement  is  with  no  bride — the  worms!  the  worms 
xpect  me!  I  am  a  dead  man — I  have  been  slain  by  robbers 
—my  body  lies  at  Wurtzburg — at  midnight  I  am  to  be 
uried — the  grave  is  waiting  for  me — I  must  keep  my  ap- 
)ointment!" 

He  sprang  on  his  black  charger,  dashed  over  the  draw- 
ridge,  and  the  clattering  of  his  horse's  hoofs  was  lost  in 
he  whistling  of  the  night-blast. 

The  Baron  returned  to  the  hall  in  the  utmost  consterna- 
ion,  and  related  what  had  passed.  Two  ladies  fainted  out- 
ight;  others  sickened  at  the  idea  of  having  banquetted  with 
i  spectre.  It  was  the  opinion  of  some,  that  this  might  be 
he  wild  huntsman  famous  in  German  legend.  Some  talked 
f  mountain  sprites,  of  wood  demons,  and  of  other  super- 
latural  beings,  with  which  the  good  people  of  Germany 
uive  been  so  grievously  harassed  since  time  immemorial. 
)ne  of  the  poor  relations  ventured  to  suggest  that  it  might 
>e  some  sportive  evasion  of  the  young  cavalier,  and  that 
he  very  gloominess  of  the  caprice  seemed  to  accord  with 
o  melancholy  a  personage.  This,  however,  drew  on  him 
he  indignation  of  the  whole  company,  and  especially  of 
he  Baron,  who  looked  upon  him  as  little  better  than  an 
nfidel;  so  that  he  was  fain  to  abjure  his  heresy  as  speedily 
is  possible,  and  come  into  the  faith  of  the  true  believers. 

But,  whatever  may  have  been  the  doubts  entertained, 
Jiey  were  completely  put  to  an  end  by  the  arrival,  next 
lay,  of  regular  missives,  confirming  the  intelligence  of  the 
oung  Count's  murder,  and  his  interment  in  Wurtzburg 
ftthedral. 

The  dismay  at  the  castle  may  well  be  imagined.  The 
3aron  shut  himself  up  in  his  chamber.  The  guests  who 
md  come  to  rejoice  with  him,  could  not  think  of  abandon- 


150  TSJS  SKETCH-BOOK. 

ing  him  in  his  distress.  They  wandered  about  the  courts,) 
or  collected  in  groups  in  the  hall,  shaking  their  heads  anq 
shrugging  their  shoulders,  at  the  troubles  of  so  good  a 
man;  and  safe  longer  than  ever  at  table,  and  ate  and  drankj 
more  stoutly  than  ever,  by  way  of  keeping  up  their  spirits*! 
But  the  situation  of  the  widowed  bride  was  the  most  pitil 
able.  To  have  lost  a  husband  before  she  had  even  eml 
braced  him — and  such  a  husband!  if  the  very  spectre  couldj 
be  so  gracious  and  noble,  what  must  have  been  the  livings 
man?  She  filled  the  house  with  lamentations. 

On  the  night  of  the  second  day  of  her  widowhood,  shq 
had  retired  to  her  chamber,  accompanied  by  one  of  heij 
aunts,  who  insisted  on  sleeping  with  her.  The  aunt,  whi 
was  one  of  the  best  tellers  of  ghost  stories  in  all  Germanyj 
had  just  been  recounting  one  of  her  longest,  and  had  falleffl 
asleep  in  the  very  midst  of  it.  The  chamber  was  remoter 
and  overlooked  a  small  garden.  The  niece  lay  pensivelj 
gazing  at  the  beams  of  the  rising  moon,  as  they  trembled 
on  the  leaves  of  an  aspen  tree  before  the  lattice.  The  castle 
clock  had  just  told  midnight,  when  a  soft  strain  of  music 
stole  up  from  the  garden.  She  rose  hastily  from  her  bed 
and  stepped  lightly  to  the  window.  A  tall  figure  stood 
among  the  shadows  of  the  trees.  As  it  raised  its  head,M 
beam  of  moonlight  fell  upon  its  countenance.  Heaven 
and  earth!  she  beheld  the  Spectre  Bridegroom!  A  loud 
shriek  at  that  moment  burst  upon  her  ear,  and  her  aunt, 
who  had  been  awakened  by  the  music,  and  had  followed 
her  silently  to  the  window,  fell  into  her  arms.  When  she 
looked  again,  the  spectre  had  disappeared. 

Of  the  two  females,  the  aunt  now  required  the  most 
soothing,  for  she  was  perfectly  beside  herself  with  terror. 
As  to  the  young  lady,  there  was  something,  even  in  the 
spectre  of  her  lover,  that  seemed  endearing.  There  was 
still  the  semblance  of  manly  beauty;  and  though  the  shad' 
of  a  man  is  but  little  calculated  to  satisfy  the  affections 
a  love-sick  girl,  yet,  where  the  substance  is  not  to  be  h 
even  that  is  consoling.  The  aunt  declared  she  wo 
never  sleep  in  that  chamber  again;  the  niece,  for  once, 
refractory,  and  declared  as  strongly  that  she  would  si 
in  no  other  in  the  castle;  the  consequence  was,  that  she 
to  sleep  in  it  alone;  but  she  drew  a  promise  from  her  a 
not  to  relate  the  story  of  the  spectre,  lest  she  should 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  151 

denied  the  only  melancholy  pleasure  left  her  on  earth — that 
of  inhabiting  the  chamber  over  which  the  guardian  shade 
of  her  lover  kept  its  nightly  vigils. 

How  long  the  good  old  lady  would  have  observed  this 
promise  is  uncertain,  for  she  dearly  -loved  to  talk  of  the 
marvellous,  and  there  is  a  triumph  in  being  the  first  to  tell 
a  frightful  story;  it  is,  however,  still  quoted  in  the  neigh 
borhood,  as  a  memorable  instance  of  female  secrecy,  that 
she  kept  it  to  herself  for  a  whole  week;  when  she  was  sud 
denly  absolved  from  all  farther  restraint  by  intelligence 
brought  to  the  breakfast-table  one  morning  that  the  young 
lady  was  not  to  be  found.  Her  room  was  empty — the  bed 
had  not  been  slept  in — the  window  was  open — and  the  bird 
had  flown! 

The  astonishment  and  concern  with  which  the  intelli 
gence  was  received,  can  only  be  imagined  by  those  who 
have  witnessed  the  agitation  which  the  mishaps  of  a  great 
man  cause  among  his  friends.  Even  the  poor  relations 
paused  for  a  moment  from  the  indefatigable  labors  of  the 
trencher;  when  the  aunt,  who  had  at  first  been  struck 
speechless,  wrung  her  hands  and  shrieked  out,  "  The  goblin! 
the  goblin!  she's  carried  away  by  the  goblin!" 

In  a  few  words  she  related  the  fearful  scene  of  the  gar 
den,  and  concluded  that  the  spectre  must  have  carried  off 
his  bride.  Two  of  the  domestics  corroborated  the  opinion, 
for  they  had  heard  the  clattering  of  a  horse's  hoofs  down 
the  mountain  about  midnight,  and  had  no  doubt  that  it 
was  the  spectre  on  his  black  charger,  bearing  her  away  to 
the  tomb.  All  present  were  struck  with  the  direful  prob 
ability;  for  events  of  the  kind  are  extremely  common  in 
Germany,  as  many  well-authenticated  histories  bear  wit 
ness. 

What  a  lamentable  situation  was  that  of  the  poor  Baron ! 
What  a  heart-rending  dilemma  for  a  fond  father,  and  a 
member  of  the  great  family  of  Katzenellenbogen!  His 
only  daughter  had  either  been  wrapt  away  to  the  grave,  or 
he  was  to  have  some  wood-demon  for  a  son-in-law,  and 
perchance,  a  troop  of  goblin  grandchildren.  As  usual,  he 
was  completely  bewildered,  and  all  the  castle  in  an  uproar. 
The  men  were  ordered  to  take  horse,  and  scour  every  road 
and  path  and  glen  of  the  Odenwald.  The  Baron  himself 
had  just  drawn  on  his  jack-boots,  girded  on  his  sword,  and 


152  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

was  about  to  mount  his  steed  to  sally  forth  on  the  doubtful 
quest,  when  be  was  brought  to  a  pause  by  a  new  apparition. 
A  lady  was  seen  approaching  the  castle,  mounted  on  a  pal 
frey,  attended  by  a  cavalier  on  horseback.  She  galloped 
up  to  the  gate,  sprang  from  her  horse,  and  falling  at  the 
Baron's  feet  embraced  his  knees.  It  was  his  lost  daughter, 
and  her  companion — the  Spectre  Bridegroom!  The  Baron 
was  astounded.  He  looked  at  his  daughter,  then  at  the 
Spectre,  and  almost  doubted  the  evidence  of  his  senses. 
The  latter,  too,  was  wonderfully  improved  in  his  appear 
ance,  since  his  visit  to  the  world  of  spirits.  His  dress  was 
splendid,  and  set  off  a  noble  figure  of  manly  symmetry. 
He  was  no  longer  pale  and  melancholy.  His  fine  counte 
nance  was  flushed  with  the  glow  of  youth,  and  joy  rioted  in 
his  large  dark  eye. 

The  mystery  was  soon  cleared  up.  The  cavalier  (for  in 
truth,  as  you  must  have  known  all  the  while,  he  was  no 
goblin)  announced  himself  as  Sir  Herman  Von  Starken- 
faust.  He  related  his  adventure  with  the  young  count. 
He  told  how  he  had  hastened  to  the  castle  to  deliver  the 
unwelcome  tidings,  but  that  the  eloquence  of  the  Baron 
had  interrupted  him. in  every  attempt  to  tell  his  tale.  How 
the  sight  of  the  bride  had  completely  captivated  him,  and 
that  to  pass  a  few  hours  near  her,  he  had  tacitly  suffered 
the  mistake  to  continue.  How  he  had  been  sorely  per 
plexed  in  what  way  to  make  a  decent  retreat,  until  the 
Baron's  goblin  stories  had  suggested  his  eccentric  exit. 
How,  fearing  the  feudal  hostility  of  the  family,  he  had  re 
peated  his  visits  by  stealth — had  haunted  the  garden 
beneath  the  young  lady's  window — had  wooed — had  won — 
had  borne  away  in  triumph — and,  in  a  word,  had  wedded 
the  fair  one. 

Under  any  other  circumstances,  the  Baron  would  have 
been  inflexible,  for  he  was  tenacious  of  paternal  authority, 
and  devoutly  obstinate  in  all  family  feuds;  but  he  loved 
his  daughter;  he  had  lamented  her  as  lost;  he  rejoiced  to 
find  her  still  alive;  and,  though  her  husband  was  of  a  hos 
tile  house,  yet,  thank  Heaven,  he  was  not  a  goblin.  There 
was  something,  it  must  be  acknowledged,  that  did  not  ex 
actly  accord  with  his  notions  of  strict  veracity,  in  the  joke 
the  knight  had  passed  upon  him  of  his  being  a  dead  man; 
but  several  old  friends  present,  who  had  served  in  the  wars, 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  153 

assured  him  that  every  stratagem  was  excusable  in  love, 
and  that  the  cavalier  was  entitled  to  especial  privilege, 
having  lately  served  as  a  trooper. 

Matters,  therefore,  were  happily  arranged.  The  Baron 
pardoned  the  young  couple  on  the  spot.  The  revels  at  the 
castle  were  resumed.  The  poor  relations  overwhelmed 
this  new  member  of  the  family  with  loving-kindness;  he 
was  so  gallant,  so  generous — and  so  rich.  The  aunts,  it  is 
true,  were  somewhat  scandalized  that  their  system  of  strict 
seclusion,  and  passive  obedience,  should  be  so  badly  exem 
plified,  but  attributed  it  all  to  their  negligence  in  not 
having  the  windows  grated.  One  of  them  was  particularly 
mortified  at  having  her  marvellous  story  marred,  and  that 
the  only  spectre  she  had  ever  seen  should  turn  out  a  coun 
terfeit;  but  the  niece  seemed  perfectly  happy  at  having 
found  him  substantial  flesh  and  blood — and  so  the  story 
ends. 


154  THE  SKETCH-BOOR. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

When  I  behold,  with  deep  astonishment, 
To  famous  Westminster  how  there  resorte, 
Living  in  brasse  or  stony  monument, 
The  princes  and  the  worthies  of  all  sorte; 
Doe  not  I  see  reformde  nobilitie, 
Without  contempt,  or  pride,  or  ostentation, 
And  looke  upon  offenseless  majesty, 
Naked  of  pomp  or  earthly  domination? 
And  how  a  play-game  of  a  painted  stone 
Contents  the  quiet  now  and  silent  sprites, 
Whome  all  the  world  which  late  they  stood  upon, 
Could  not  content  nor  quench  their  appetites. 
Life  is  a  frost  of  cold  felicitie, 
And  death  the  thaw  of  all  our  vanitie. 

Christolero's  Epigrams,  by  T.  B.  1598. 

ON"  one  of  these  sober  and  rather  melancholy  days,  in  the 
latter  part  of  autumn,  when  the  shadows  of  morning  and 
evening  almost  mingle  together,  and  throw  a  gloom  over 
the  decline  of  the  year,  I  passed  several  hours  in  rambling 
about  Westminster  Abbey.  There  was  something  conge 
nial  to  the  season  in  the  mournful  magnificence  of  the  old 
pile;  and  as  I  passed  its  threshold,  it  seemed  like  stepping 
back  into  the  regions  of  antiquity,  and  losing  myself  among 
the  shades  of  former  ages. 

I  entered  from  the  inner  court  of  Westminster  school, 
through  a  long,  low,  vaulted  passage,  that  had  an  almost 
subterranean  look,  being  dimly  lighted  in  one  part  by  cir 
cular  perforations  in  the  massive  walls.  Through  this  dark 
avenue  I  had  a  distant  view  of  the  cloisters,  with  the  figure 
of  an  old  verger,  in  his  black  gown,  moving  slowly  along 
their  shadowy  vaults,  and  seeming  like  a  spectre  from  one , 
of  the  neighboring  tombs. 

The  approach  to  the  abbey  through  these  gloomy  monas 
tic  remains  prepares  the  mind  for  its  solemn  contemplation.  • 
The  cloister  still  retains  something  of  the  quiet  and  scclu-^ 
sion  of   former   days.     The   gray  walls  are  discolored    by 
damps,  and  crumbling  with  age;  a  coat  of  hoary  moss  has 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY,  155 

athered  over  the  inscriptions  of  the  mural  monuments, 
nd  obscured  the  death's-heads,  and  other  funeral  emblems, 
sharp  touches  of  the  chisel  are  gone  from  the  rich 
racery  of  the  arches;  the  roses  which  adorned  the  key- 
;ones  have  lost  their  leafy  beauty;  everything  bears  marks 
f  the  gradual  dilapidations  of  time,  which  yet  has  some- 
ling  touching  and  pleasing  in  its  very  decay. 

The  sun  was  pouring  down  a  yellow  autumnal  ray  into 
le  square  of  the  cloisters;  beaming  upon  a  scanty  plot  of 
rass  in  the  centre,  and  lighting  up  an  angle  of  the  vaulted 
assage  with  a  kind  of  dusty  splendor.  From  between  the 
rcades,  the  eye  glanced  up  to  a  bit  of  blue  sky,  or  a  pass- 
ig  cloud;  and  beheld  the  sun-gilt  pinnacles  of  the  abbey 
•owering  into  the  azure  heaven. 

As  I  paced  the  cloisters,  sometimes  contemplating  this 
tingled  picture  of  glory  and  decay,  and  sometimes  endeav- 
ring  to  decipher  the  inscriptions  on  the  tombstones, 
Inch  formed  the  pavement  beneath  my  feet,  my  eyes  were 
;tracted  to  three  figures,  rudely  carved  in  relief,  but 
early  worn  away  by  the  footsteps  of  many  generations, 
hey  were  the  effigies  of  three  of  the  early  abbots;  the  epi- 
aphs  were  entirely  effaced;  the  names  alone  remained, 
aving  no  doubt  been  renewed  in  later  times;  (Vitalis.  Ab 
as.  1082,  and  Gislebertus  Crispinus.  Abbas.  1114,  and 
aurentius.  Abbas.  1176.)  I  remained  some  little  while, 
nusing  over  these  casual  relics  of  antiquity,  thus  left  like 
recks  upon  this  distant  shore  of  time,  telling  no  tale  but 
uit  such  beings  had  been  and  had  perished;  teaching  no 
Loral  but  the  futility  of  that  pride  which  hopes  still  to  exact 
oniage  in  its  ashes,  and  to  live  in  an  inscription.  A  little 
mger,  and  even  these  faint  records  will  be  obliterated,  and 
le  monument  will  cease  to  be  a  memorial.  Whilst  I  was 
it  looking  down  upon  the  gravestones,  I  was  roused  by 
le  sound  of  the  abbey  clock,  reverberating  from  buttress 
o  buttress,  and  echoing  among  the  cloisters.  It  is  almost 
.artling  to  hear  this  warning  of  departed  time  sounding 
mong  the  tombs,  and  telling  the  lapse  of  the  hour,  which, 
ke  a  billow,  has  rolled  us  onward  towards  the  grave. 

I  pursued  my  walk  to  an  arched  door  opening  to  the  in- 
srior  of  the  abbey.  On  entering  here,  the  magnitude  of 
le  building  breaks  fully  upon  the  mind,  contrasted  with 
le  vaults  of  the  cloisters,  The  eye  gazes  with  wonder  at 


156  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

clustered  columns  of  gigantic  dimensions,  with  arches 
springing  from  them  to  such  an  amazing  height;  and  man,} 
wandering  about  their  bases,  shrunk  into  insignificance  iu 
comparison  with  his  own  handy-work.  The  spaciousnesa 
and  gloom  of  this  vast  edifice  produce  a  profound  and  mysl 
terious  awe.  We  step  cautiously  and  softly  about,  as  is 
fearful  of  disturbing  the  hallowed  silence  of  the  tombs 
while  every  footfall  whispers  along  the  walls,  and  chatter! 
among  the  sepulchres,  making  us  more  sensible  of  the  quietf 
we  have  interrupted. 

It  seems  as  if  the  awful  nature  of  the  place  presses  down] 
upon  the  soul,  and  hushes  the  beholder  into  noiseless  rev-j 
erence.  We  feel  that  we  are  surrounded  by  the  congre-1 
gated  bones  of  the  great  men  of  past  times,  who  have  filleca 
history  with  their  deeds,  and  the  earth  with  their  renownl 
And  yet  it  almost  provokes  a  smile  at  the  vanity  of  human;] 
ambition,  to  see  how  they  are  crowded  together,  and  justled] 
in  the  dust;  what  parsimony  is  observed  in  doling  out  a 
scanty  nook — a  gloomy  corner — a  little  portion  of  earth,  toj 
those  whom,  when  alive,  kingdoms  could  not  satisfy:  ana 
how  many  shapes,  and  forms,  and  artifices,  are  devised  tea 
catch  the  casual  notice  of  the  passenger,  and  save  from  for«j 
getf ulness,  for  a  few  short  years,  a  name  which  once  aspired;! 
to  occupy  ages  of  the  world's  thought  and  admiration. 

I  passed  some  time  in  Poet's  Corner,  which  occupies  an 
end  of  one  of  the  transepts  or  cross  aisles  of  the  abbey. 
The  monuments  are  generally  simple;  for  the  lives  of  liter 
ary  men  afford  no  striking  themes  for  a  sculptor.  Shaks-i' 
peare  and  Addison  have  statues  erected  to  their  memories; 
but  the  greater  part  have  busts,  medallions,  and  sometimes 
mere  inscriptions.  Notwithstanding  the  simplicity  ofj 
these  memorials,  I  have  always  observed  that  the  visitors 
to  the  abbey  remain  longest  about  them.  A  kinder  and 
fonder  feeling  takes  place  of  that  cold  curiosity  or  vague 
admiration  with  which  they  gaze  on  the  splendid  monu 
ments  of  the  great  and  the  heroic.  They  linger  about 
these  as  about  the  tombs  of  friends  and  companions;  for 
indeed  there  is  something  of  companionship  between  the 
author  and  the  reader.  Other  men  are  known  to  posterity 
only  through  the  medium  of  history,  which  is  continually 
growing  faint  and  obscure;  but  the  intercourse  between  the 
author  and  his  fellow-men  is  ever  new,  active,  and  immedi- 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  157 

ate.  He  has  lived  for  them  more  than  for  himself;  he  has 
sacrificed  surrounding  enjoyments,  and  shut  himself  up 
from  the  delights  of  social  life,  that  he  might  the  more  in 
timately  commune  with  distant  minds  and  distant  ages. 
Well  may  the  world  cherish  his  renown;  for  it  has  been 
purchased,  not  by  deeds  of  violence  and  blood,  but  by  the 
diligent  dispensation  -of  pleasure.  Well  may  posterity  be 
grateful  to  his  memory;  for  he  has  left  it  an  inheritance, 
not  of  empty  names  and  sounding  actions,  but  whole  treas 
ures  of  wisdom,  bright  gems  of  thought,  and  golden  veins 
of  language. 

From  Poet's  Corner  I  continued  my  stroll  towards  that 
part  of  the  abbey  which  contains  the  sepulchres  of  the  kings. 
I  wandered  among  what  once  were  chapels,  but  which  are 
now  occupied  by  the  tombs  and  monuments  of  the  great. 
At  every  turn,  I  met  with  some  illustrious  name,  or  the 
cognizance  of  some  powerful  house  renowned  in  history. 
As  the  eye  darts  into  these  dusky  chambers  of  death,  it 
catches  glimpses  of  quaint  effigies;  some  kneeling  in  niches, 
as  if  in  devotion;  others  stretched  upon  the  tombs,  with 
hands  piously  pressed  together;  warriors  in  armor,  as  if  re 
posing  after  battle;  prelates,  with  crosiers  and  mitres;  and 
nobles  in  robes  and  coronets,  lying  as  it  were  in  state.  In 
glancing  over  this  scene,  so  strangely  populous,  yet  where 
every  form  is  so  still  and  silent,  it  seems  almost  as  if  we 
were  treading  a  mansion  of  tha,t  fabled  city,  where  every 
being  had  been  suddenly  transmuted  into  stone. 

I  paused  to  contemplate  a  tomb  on  which  lay  the  effigy 
of  a  knight  in  complete  armor.  A  large  buckler  was  on 
one  arm;  the  hands  were  pressed  together  in  supplication 
upon  the  breast;  the  face  was  almost  covered  by  the 
morion;  the  legs  were  crossed,  in  token  of  the  warrior's 
having  been  engaged  in  the  holy  war.  It  was  the  tomb  of 
a  crusader;  of  one  of  those  military  enthusiasts,  who  so 
strangely  mingled  religion  and  romance,  and  whose  exploits 
form  the  connecting  link  between  fact  and  fiction — between 
the  history  and  the  fairy  tale.  There  is  something  ex 
tremely  picturesque  in  the  tombs  of  these  adventurers,  dec 
orated  as  they  are  with  rude  armorial  bearings  and  Gothic 
sculpture.  They  comport  with  the  antiquated  chapels  in 
which  they  are  generally  found;  and  in  considering  them, 
the  imagination  is  apt  to  kindle  with  the  legendary  associ- 


158  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

ations,  the  romantic  fictions,  the  chivalrous  pomp  and  pag 
eantry,  which  has  spead  orer  the  wars  for  the  Sepulchre 
of  Christ.  They  are  the  relics  of  times  utterly  gone  by; 
of  beings  passed  from  recollection;  of  customs  and  man 
ners  with  which  ours  have  no  affinity.  They  are  like  objects 
from  some  strange  and  distant  land  of  which  we  have  no 
certain  knowledge,  and  about  which  all  our  conceptions  are 
vague  and  visionary.  There  is  something  extremely  solemn 
and  awful  in  those  effigies  on  Gothic  tombs,  extended  as  if 
in  the  sleep  of  death,  or  in  the  supplication  of  the  dying 
hour.  They  have  an  effect  infinitely  more  impressive  on 
my  feelings  than  the  fanciful  attitudes,  the  overwrought 
conceits,  and  allegorical  groups,  which  abound  on  modern 
monuments.  I  have  been  struck,  also  with  the  superiority 
of  many  of  the  old  sepulchral  inscriptions.  There  was  a 
noble  way,  in  former  times,  of  saying  things  simply,  and 
yet  saying  them  proudly:  and  I  do  riot  know  an  epitaph 
that  breathes  a  loftier  consciousness  of  family  worth  and 
honorable  lineage,  than  one  which  affirms,  of  a  noble  house, 
that  "all  the  brothers  were  brave,  and  all  the  sisters  vir 
tuous." 

In  the  opposite  transept  to  Poet's  Corner,  stands  a  monu 
ment  which  is  among  the  most  renowned  achievements  of 
modern  art;  but  which,  to  me,  appears  horrible  rather  than 
sublime.  It  is  the  tomb  of  Mrs.  Nightingale,  byRoubillac. 
The  bottom  of  the  monument  is  represented  as  throwing 
open  its  marble  doors,  and  a  sheeted  skeleton  is  starting  forth 
The  shroud  is  falling  from  his  fleshless  frame  as  he  launches 
his  dart  at  his  victim.  She  is  sinking  into  her  affrighted 
husband's  arms,  who  strives,  with  vain  and  frantic  effort, 
to  avert  the  blow.  The  whole  is  executed  with  terrible 
truth  and  spirit;  we  almost  fancy  we  hear  the  gibbering 
yell  of  triumph,  bursting  from  the  distended  jaws  of  the 
spectre. — But  why  should  we  thus  seek  to  clothe  death 
with  unnecessary  terrors,  and  to  spread  horrors  around  the 
tomb  of  those  we  love?  The  grave  should  be  surrounded 
by  every  thing  that  might  inspire  tenderness  and  veneration 
for  the  dead;  or  that  might  win  the  living  to  virtue.  It  is 
the  place,  not  of  disgust  and  dismay,  but  of  sorrow  and 
meditation. 

While  wandering  about  these  gloomy  vaults  and  silent 
aisles,  studying  the  records  of  the  dead,  the  sound  of  busy 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  159 

existence  from  without  occasionally  reaches  the  ear: — -the 
rumbling  of  the  passing  equipage;  the  murmur  of  the  multi 
tude;  or  perhaps  the  light  laugh  of  pleasure.  The  contrast 
is  striking  with  the  deathlike  repose  around;  and  it  has  a 
strange  effect  upon  the  feelings,  thus  to  hear  the  surges  of 
active  life  hurrying  along  and  beating  against  the  very 
walls  of  the  sepulchre. 

I  continued  in  this  way  to  move  from  tomb  to  tomb,  qnd 
from  chapel  to  chapel.  The  day  was  gradually  wearing 
away;  the  distant  tread  of  loiterers  about  the  abbey  grew 
less  and  less  frequent;  the  sweet-tongued  bell  was  summon 
ing  to  evening  prayers;  and  I  saw  at  a  distance  the  choris 
ters,  in  their  white  surplices,  crossing  the  aisle  and  enter 
ing  the  choir.  I  stood  before  the  entrance  to  Henry  the 
Seventh's  chapel.  A  flight  of  steps  leads  up  to  it,  through 
a  deep  and  gloomy,  but  magnificent  arch.  Great  gates  of 
brass,  richly  and  delicately  wrought,  turn  heavily  upon 
their  hinges,  as  if  proudly  reluctant  to  admit  the  feet  of 
common  mortals  into  this  most  gorgeous  of  sepulchres. 

On  entering,  the  eye  is  astonished  by  the  pomp  of  archi 
tecture,  and  the  elaborate  beauty  of  sculptured  detail.  The 
very  walls  are  wrought  into  universal  ornament,  encrusted 
with  tracery,  and  scooped  into  niches,  crowded  with  the 
statues  of  saints  and  martyrs.  Stone  seems  by  the  cunning 
labor  of  the  chisel,  to  have  been  robbed  of  its  weight  and 
density,  suspended  aloft,  as  if  by  magic,  and  the  fretted 
roof  achieved  with  the  wonderful  minuteness  and  airy  secur 
ity  of  a  cobweb. 

Along  the  sides  of  the  chapel  are  the  lofty  stalls  of  the 
Knights  of  the  Bath,  richly  carved  of  oak,  though  with  the 
grostesque  decorations  of  Gothic  architecture.  On  the  pin 
nacles  of  the  stalls  are  affixed  the  helmets  and  crests  of  the 
knight*,  with  their  scarfs  and  swords;  and  above  them 
are  suspended  their  banners,  emblazoned  with  armorial 
bearings,  and  contrasting  the  splendor  of  gold  and  purple 
and  crimson,  with  the  cold  gray  fretwork  of  the  roof.  In 
the  midst  of  this  grand  mausoleum  stands  the  sepulchre  of 
its  founder, — his  effigy,  with  that  of  his  queen,  extended 
on  a  sumptuous  tornb,  and  the  whole  surrounded  by  a 
superbly  wrought  brazen  railing. 

There  is  a  sad  dreariness  in  this  magnificence:  this 
strange  mixture  of  tombs  and  trophies;  these  emblems  of 


160  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

living  and  aspiring  ambition,  close  beside  mementos  which 
show  the  dust  and  oblivion  in  which  all  must  sooner  or 
later  terminate.    Nothing  impresses  the  mind  with  a  deeper  i 
feeling  of  loneliness,  than  to  tread  the  silent  and  deserted 
scene  of  former  throng  and  pageant.     On  looking  round ' 
on  the  vacant  stalls  of  the  knights  and  their  esquires,  and 
on  the  rows  of  dusty,  but  gorgeous  banners  that  were  once 
borne  before  them,  my  imagination  conjured  up  the  scene 
when  this  hall  was  bright  with  the  valor  and  beauty  of  the" 
land;  glittering  with  the  splendor  of  jewelled  rank  and  mil 
itary  array;  alive  with  the  tread  of  many  feet,  and  the  hum ; 
of  an  admiring  multitude.      All  had   passed    away;   the 
silence  of  death  had  settled  again  upon  the  place;  inter 
rupted  only  by  the  casual  chirping  of  birds,  which   h;id 
found  their  way  into   the   chapel,    and    built   their   nests 
among  its  friezes  and  pendants — sure  signs  of  solitariness 
and  desertion.     When  I  read  the  names  inscribed  on  the  \ 
banners,  they  were  those  of  men  scattered  far  and  wide 
about  the  world;  some  tossing  upon  distant  seas;  some  un-.i 
der  arms  in  distant  lands;  some  mingling  in  the  busy  in 
trigues  of  courts  and  cabinets;  all  seeking  to  deserve  one  more 
distinction  in  this  mansion  of  shadowy  honors — the  melan 
choly  reward  of  a  monument. 

Two  small  aisles  on  each  side  of  this  chapel  present  a 
touching  instance  of  the  equality  of  the  grave,  which  brings 
down  the  oppressor  to  a  level  with  the  oppressed,  and  min 
gles  the  dust  of  the  bitterest  enemies  together.  In  one  is  ! 
the  sepulchre  of  the  haughty  Elizabeth;  in  the  other  is  that 
of  her  victim,  the  lovely  and  unfortunate  Mary.  Not  an 
hour  in  the  day,  but  some  ejaculation  of  pity  is  uttered 
over  the  fate  of  the  latter,  mingled  with  indignation  at  her 
oppressor.  The  walls  of  Elizabeth's  sepulchre  continually 
echo  with  the  sighs  of  sympathy  heaved  at  the  grave  of  her 
rival. 

A  peculiar  melancholy  reigns  over  the  aisle  where  Mary 
lies  buried.  The  light  struggles  dimly  through  windows 
darkened  by  dust.  The  greater  part  of  the  place  is  in  deep 
shadow,  and  the  walls  are  stained  and  tinted  by  time  and 
weather.  A  marble  figure  of  Mary  is  stretched  upon  the 
tomb,  round  which  is  an  iron  railing,  much  corroded,  bear 
ing  her  national  emblem — the  thistle.  I  was  weary  with 
wandering,  and  sat  down  to  rest  myself  by  the  monument. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  161 

volving  in  my  mind  the  checkered  and  disastrous  story 
f  poor  Mary. 

The  sound  of  casual  footsteps  had  ceased  from  the  abbey. 

could  only  hear,  now  and  then,  the  distant  voice  of  the 
riest  repeating  the  evening  service,  and  the  faint  responses 
f  the  choir;  these  paused  for  a  time,  and  all  was  hushed, 
^he  stillness,  the  desertion  and  obscurity  that  were  grad- 
ally  prevailing  around,  gave  a  deeper  and  more  solemn 
aterest  to  the  place: 

For  in  the  silent  grave  no  conversation, 
No  joyful  tread  of  friends,  no  voice  of  lovers, 
No  careful  father's  counsel — nothing's  heard, 
For  nothing  is,  but  all  oblivion, 
Dust,  and  an  endless  darkness. 

Suddenly  the  notes  of  the  deep-laboring  organ  burst  upon 
lie  ear,  falling  with  doubled  and  redoubled  intensity,  and 
oiling,  as  it  were,  huge  billows  of  sound.  How  well  do 
heir  volume  and  grandeur  accord  with  this  mighty  build- 
ng!  With  what  pomp  do  they  swell  through  its  vast 
aults,  and  breathe  their  awful  harmony  through  these 
aves  of  death,  and  make  the  silent  sepulchre  vocal! — And 
ow  they  rise  in  triumphant  acclamation,  heaving  higher 
nd  higher  their  accordant  notes,  and  piling  sound  on 
ound. — And  now  they  pause,  and  the  soft  voices  of  the 
hoir  break  out  into  sweet  gushes  of  melody;  they  soar 
loft,  and  warble  along  the  roof,  and  seem  to  play  about 
hese  lofty  vaults  like  the  pure  airs  of  heaven.  Again  the 
ealing  organ  heaves  its  thrilling  thunders,  compressing  air 
nto  music,  and  rolling  it  forth  upon  the  soul.  What  long- 
rawn  cadences!  AVhat  solemn  sweeping  concords!  It 
rows  more  and  more  dense  and  powerful — it  fills  the  vast 
ile,  and  seems  to  jar  the  very  walls — the  ear  is  stunned — 
lie  senses  are  overwhelmed.  And  now  it  is  winding  up  in 
ull  jubilee — it  is  rising  from  the  earth  to  heaven — the  very 
oul  seems  rapt  away,  and  floated  upwards  on  this  swelling 
ide  of  harmony! 

I  sat  for  some  time  lost  in  that  kind  of  reverie  which  a 
train  of  music  is  apt  sometimes  to  inspire:  the  shadows  of 
veiling  were  gradually  thickening  around  me;  the  monu- 
nents  began  to  cast  deeper  and  deeper  gloomy  and  the  dis- 
ant  clock  again  gave  token  of  the  slowly  waning  day. 


162  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

I  arose,  and  prepared  to  leave  the  abbe}7.    As  I  descended  1 
the  flight  of  steps  which  lead  into  the  body  of  the  building,  j 
my  eye  was  caught  by  the  shrine  of  Edward  the  Confessor,! 
and  I  ascended  the  small  staircase  that  conducts  to  it,  toj 
take  from  thence  a  general  survey  of  this  wilderness  ofH 
tombs.     The  shrine  is  elevated  upon  a  kind  of  platform,!! 
and  close  around  it  are  the  sepulchres  of  various  kings  and! 
queens.     From  this  eminence  the  e}'e  looks  down  between  4 
pillars  and  funeral  trophies  to  the  chapels  and  chambers 
below,  crowded  with  tombs;  where  warriors,  prelates  coiir-l 
tiers,  and  statesmen,  lie  mouldering  in  "their  beds  of  dark-a 
ness."     Close  by  me  stood   the  great  chair  of  coronation,'! 
rudely  carved  of  oak,  in  the  barbarous  taste  of  a  remote! 
and  Gothic  age.     The  scene  seemed  almost  as  if  contrived,! 
with  theatrical  artifice,  to  produce  an  effect  upon  the  be-! 
holder.     Here  was  a  type  of  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  \ 
human  pomp  and  power;  here  it  was  literally  but  a  stepj 
from  the  throne  to  the  sepulchre.     Would  not  one  think.J 
that  these  incongruous  mementos  had  been  gathered  to4| 
gether  as  a  lesson  to  living  greatness? — to  show  it,  even  inj 
the  moment  of  its  proudest  exaltation,  the  neglect  and  dis-  ; 
honor  to  which  it  must  soon  arrive?  how  soon  that  crown 
which  encircles  its  brow  must  pass  away;  and  it  must  liej 
down  in  the  dust  and  disgraces  of  the  tomb,  and  be  trampledJ 
upon  by  the  feet  of  the  meanest  of  the  multitude?     For,! 
strange  to  tell,  even  the  grave  is  here  no  longer  a  sanctuary. 
There  is  a  shocking  levity  in  some  natures,  which   leads  I 
them  to  sport  with  awful  and  hallowed  things;  and  therej 
are  base  minds,  which  delight  to  revenge  on  the  illustrious 
dead  the  abject  homage  and  grovelling  servility  which  the$j 
pay  to  the  living.     The  coffin  of  Edward  the  Confessor  lui 
been  broken  open,  and  his  remains  despoiled  of  their  fn 
neral  ornaments;  the  sceptre  has  be.en  stolen  from  the  ban 
of  the  imperious  Elizabeth,  and  the  effigy  of  Henry  th 
Fifth  lies  headless.     Not  a  royal  monument  but  bears  som  _ 
proof  how  false  and  fugitive  is  the  homage  of  mankind. 
Some  are  plundered;  some  mutilated;  some  covered  with 
ribaldry  and  insult — all  more  or  less  outraged  and  dishon 
ored. 

The  last  beams  of  day  were  now  faintly  streaming  through 
the  painted  windows  in  the  high  vaults  above  me;  the  lower 
parts  of  the  abbey  were  already  wrapped  in  the  obscurity  of 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  163 

twilight.  The  chapels  and  aisles  grew  darker  and  darker. 
The  effigies  of  the  kings  faded  into  shadows;  the  marble 
figures  of  the  monuments  assumed  strange  shapes  in  the 
uncertain  light;  the  evening  breeze  crept  through  the  aisles 
like  the  cold  breath  of  the  grave;  and  even  the  distant  foot 
fall  of  the  verger,  traversing  the  Poet's  Corner,  had  some 
thing  strange  and  dreary  in  its  sound.  I  slowly  retraced 
my  morning's  walk,  and  as  I  passed  out  at  the  portal  of  the 
cloisters,  the  door  closing  with  a  jarring  noise  behind  me, 
filled  the  whole  building  with  echoes. 

I  endeavored  to  form  some  arrangement  in  my  mind  of 
the  objects  I  had  been  contemplating,  but  found  they  were 
already  falling  into  indistinctness  and  confusion.  Names, 
inscriptions,  trophies,  had  all  become  confounded  in  my 
recollection,  though  I  had  scarcely  taken  my  foot  from  off  the 
threshold.  What,  thought  I,  is  this  vast  assemblage  of 
sepulchres  but  a  treasury  of  humiliation;  a  huge  pile  of  re 
iterated  homilies  on  the  emptiness  of  renown,  and  the  cer 
tainty  of  oblivion?  It  is,  indeed,  the  empire  of  Death;  his 
great  shadowy  palace;  where  he  sits  in  state,  mocking  at 
the  relics  of  human  glory,  and  spreading  dust  and  forget 
ful  ness  on  the  monuments  of  princes.  How  idle  a  boast, 
after  all,  is  the  immortality  of  a  name!  Time  is  ever  silently 
turning  over  his  pages;  we  are  too  much  engrossed  by  the 
story  of  the  present,  to  think  of  the  characters  and  anec 
dotes  that  give  interest  to  the  past;  and  each  age  is  a  vol 
ume  thrown  aside  to  be  speedily  forgotten.  The  idol  of 
to-day  pushes  the  hero  of  yesterday  out  of  our  recollection; 
and  will,  in  turn,  be  supplanted  by  his  successor  of  to-mor 
row.  "Our  fathers,"  says  Sir  Thomas  Brown,  "find  their 
graves  in  our  short  memories,  and  sadly  tell  us  how  we  may 
jo  buried  in  our  survivors."  History  fades  into  fable;  fact 
Becomes  clouded  with  doubt  and  controversy;  the  inscrip- 
Jon  moulders  from  the  tablet;  the  statue  falls  from  the 
aedestal.  Columns,  arches,  pyramids,  what  are  they  but 
leaps  of  sand — and  their  epitaphs,  but  characters  written 
n  the  dust?  What  is  the  security  of  a  tomb,  or  the  per- 
ictuity  of  an  embalmment?  The  remains  of  Alexander 
he  Great  have  been  scattered  to  the  wind,  and  his  empty 
arcophagus  is  now  the  mere  curiosity  of  a  museum.  "  The 
Egyptian  mummies  which  Cainbyses  or  time  hath  spared, 


164 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


avarice  now  consumeth;  Mizraim  cures  wounds,  and  Pha 
raoh  is  sold  for  balsams/'* 

What  then  is  to  insure  this  pile,  which  now  towers  above 
me,  from  sharing  the  fate  of  mightier  mausoleums?  The 
time  must  come  when  its  gilded  vaults  which  now  spring  so 
loftily,  shall  lie  in  rubbish  beneath  the  feet;  when,  instead 
of  the  sound  of  melody  and  praise,  the  winds  shall  whistle 
through  the  broken  arches,  and  the  owl  hoot  from  the 
shattered  tower — when  the  garish  sunbeam  shall  break  into 
these  gloomy  mansions  of  death;  and  the  ivy  twine  round 
the  fallen  column;  and  the  fox-glove  hand"  its  blossoms 
about  the  nameless  urn,  as  if  in  mockery  of  the  dead. 
Thus  man  passes  away;  his  name  passes  from  recollection; 
his  history  is  a  tale  that  is  told,  and  his  very  monument 
becomes  a  ruin. 

*  Sir  Thomas  Brown. 


CHRISTMAS.  165 


CHRISTMAS. 

But  is  old,  old,  good  old  Christmas  gone  ?  Nothing  but  the  hair  on 
his  good,  gray,  old  head  and  beard  left?  Well,  I  will  have  that,  see- 
ing  I  cannot  have  more  of  him. 

HUE  AND  CRY  AFTER  CHRISTMAS. 

A  man  might  then  behold 

At  Christmas,  in  each  hall, 
Good  fires  to  curb  the  cold, 

And  meat  for  great  and  small. 
The  neighbors  were  friendly  bidden, 

And  all  had  welcome  true, 
The  poor  from  the  gates  were  not  chidden, 

When  this  old  cap  was  new. 

OLD  SONG. 

THERE  is  nothing  in  England  that  exercises  a  more  de 
lightful  spell  over  my  imagination  than  the  lingerings  of 
the  holiday  customs  and  rural  games  of  former  times. 
They  recall  the  pictures  my  fancy  used  to  draw  in  the  May 
morning  of  life,  when  as  yet  I  only  knew  the  world 
through  books,  and  believed  it  to  be  all  that  poets  had 
painted  it;  and  they  bring  with  them  the  flavor  of  those 
honest  days  of  yore,  in  which,  perhaps  with  equal  fallacy, 
I  am  apt  to  think  the  world  was  more  homebred,  social, 
and  joyous  than  at  present.  I  regret  to  say  that  they  are 
daily  growing  more  and  more  faint,  being  gradually  worn 
away  by  time,  but  still  more  obliterated  by  modern  fashion. 
They  resemble  those  picturesque  morsels  of  Gothic  archi 
tecture,  which  we  see  crumbling  in  various  parts  of  the 
country,  partly  dilapidated  by,  the  waste  of  ages,  and  partly 
lost  in  the  additions  and  alterations  of  latter  days.  Poetry, 
however,  clings  with  cherishing  fondness  about  the  rural 
game  and  holiday  revel,  from  which  it  has  derived  so  many 
of  its  tkemes — as*the  ivy  winds  its  rich  foliage  about  the 
Gothic  arch  and  mouldering  tower,  gratefully  repaying 
their  support,  by  clasping  together  their  tottering  remains, 
and,  as  it  were,  embalming  them  in  verdure. 


166  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Of  all  the  old  festivals,  however,  that  of  Christmas  awak 
ens  the  strongest  and  most  heartfelt  associations.  There 
is  a  tone  of  solemn  and  sacred  feeling  that  blends  with  our 
conviviality,  and  lifts  the  spirit  to  a  state  of  hallowed  and 
elevated  enjoyment.  The  services  of  the  church  about  this 
season  are  extremely  tender  and  inspiring:  they  dwell  on 
the  beautiful  story  of  the  origin  of  our  faith,  and  the  pas 
toral  scenes  that  accompanied  its  announcement ;  they 
gradually  increase  in  fervor  and  pathos  during  the  season 
of  Advent,  until  they  break  forth  in  full  jubilee  on  the 
morning  that  brought  peace  and  good-will  to  men,  I  do 
not  know  a  grander  effect  of  music  on  the  moral  feelings 
than  to  hear  the  full  choir  and  the  pealing  organ  perform 
ing  a  Christmas  anthem  in  a  cathedral,  and  filling  every 
part  of  the  vast  pile  with  triumphant  harmony. 

It  is  a  beautiful  arrangement,  also,  derived  from  the  days 
of  yore,  that  this  festival,  which  commemorates  the  an 
nouncement  of  the  religion  of  peace  and  love,  has  been 
made  the  season  for  gathering  together  of  family  connec 
tions,  and  drawing  closer  again  those  bands  of  kindred 
hearts,  which  the  cares  and  pleasures  and  sorrows  of  the 
world  are  continually  operating  to  cast  loose;  of  calling 
back  the  children  of  a  family,  who  have  launched  forth  in 
life,  and  wandered  widely  asunder,  once  more  to  assemble 
about  the  paternal  hearth,  that  ral lying-place  of  the  affec 
tions,  there  to  grow  young  and  loving  again  among  the 
endearing  mementos  of  childhood. 

There  is  something  in  the  very  season  of  the  year,  that 
gives  a  charm  to  the  festivity  of  Christmas.  At  other  times, 
we  derive  a  great  portion  of  our  pleasures  from  the  mere 
beauties  of  Nature.  Our  feelings  sally  forth  and  dissipate 
themselves  over  the  sunny  landscape,  and  we  "  live  abroad 
and  everywhere."  The  song  of  the  bird,  the  murmur  of 
the  stream,  the  breathing  fragrance  of  spring,  the  soft  vo- ; 
luptuousness  of  summer,  the  golden  pomp  of  autumn  ; 
earth  with  its  mantle  of  refreshing  green,  and  heaven,  with 
its  deep,  delicious  blue  and  its  cloudy  magnificence, —  all  fill 
us  with  mute  but  exquisite  delight,  and  we  revel  in  the  lux 
ury  of  mere  sensation.  But  in  the  depth  of  winter,  when 
Nature  lies  despoiled  of  every  charm,  and  wrapped  in  her 
shroud  of  sheeted  snow,  we  turn  for  our  gratifications  to 
moral  sources,  The  dreariness  and  desolation  of  our  land- 


CHRISTMAS.  16? 

scape,  the  short  gloomy  days  and  darksome  nights,  while  they 
circumscribe  our  wanderings,  shut  in  our  feelings  also  from 
rambling  abroad,  and  make  us  more  keenly  disposed  for 
the  pleasures  of  the  social  circle.  Our  thoughts  are  more 
concentrated;  our  friendly  sympathies  more  aroused.  We 
feel  more  sensibly  the  charm  of  each  other's  society,  and 
are  brought  more  closely  together  by  dependence  on  each 
other  for  enjoyment.  Heart  calleth  unto  heart,  and  we 
draw  our  pleasures  from  the  deep  wells  of  living  kindness 
which  lie  in  the  quiet  recesses  of  our  bosoms;  and  which, 
when  resorted  to,  furnish  forth  the  pure  element  of  domes 
tic  felicity. 

The  pitchy  gloom  without  makes  the  heart  dilate  on  en 
tering  the  room  filled  with  the  glow  and  warmth  of  the 
evening  fire.  The  ruddy  blaze  diffuses  an  artificial  summer 
and  sunshine  through  the  room,  and  lights  up  each  coun 
tenance  with  a  kindlier  welcome.  Where  does  the  honest 
face  of  hospitality  expand  into  a  broader  and  more  cordial 
smile — where  is  the  shy  glance  of  love  more  sweetly  eloquent 
— than  by  the  winter  fireside?  and  as  the  hollow  blast  of 
wintry  wind  rushes  through  the  hall,  claps  the  distant  door, 
whistles  about  the  casement,  and  rumbles  down  the  chim 
ney,  what  can  be  more  grateful  than  that  feeling  of  sober 
and  sheltered  security,  with  which  we  look  around  upon 
the  comfortable  chamber,  and  the  scene  of  domestic  hilar 
ity? 

The  English,  from  the  great  prevalence  of  rural  habits 
throughout  every  class  of  society,  have  always  been  fond  of 
those  festivals  and  holidays  which  agreeably  interrupt  the 
stillness  of  country  life;  and  they  were  in  former  days  par 
ticularly  observant  of  the  religious  and  social  rights  of 
Christmas.  It  is  inspiring  to  read  even  the  dry  details 
which  some  antiquaries  have  given  of  the  quaint  humors, 
the  burlesque  pageants,  the  complete  abandonment  to  mirth 
and  good  fellowship,  with  which  this  festival  was  celebrated. 
It  seemed  to  throw  open  every  door,  and  unlock  every 
heart.  It  brought  the  peasant  and  the  peer  together,  and 
blended  all  ranks  in  one  warm  generous  flow  of  joy  and 
kindness.  Tire  old  halls  of  castles  and  manor-houses  re 
sounded  with  the  harp  and  the  Christmas  carol,  and  their 
ample  boards  groaned  under  the  weight  of  hospitality. 
Even  the  poorest  cottage  welcomed  the  festive  season  with 


168  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

green  decorations  of  bay  and  holly — the  cheerful  fire  glanced 
its  rays  through  the  lattice,  inviting  the  passenger  to  raise 
the  latch,  and  join  the  gossip  knot  huddled  round  the 
hearth  beguiling  the  long  evening  with  legendary  jokes, 
and  oft-told  Christmas  tales. 

One  of  the  least  pleasing  effects  of  modern  refinement  is 
the  havoc  it  has  made  among  the  hearty  old  holiday  cus 
toms.  It  has  completely  taken  off  the  sharp  touchings  and 
spirited  reliefs  of  these  embellishments  of  life,  and  has 
worn  down  society  into  a  more  smooth  and  polished,  but  cer 
tainly  a  less  characteristic  surface.  Many  of  the  games 
and  ceremonials  of  Christmas  have  entirely  disappeared, 
and,  like  the  sherris  sack  of  old  Falstaff,  are  become  matters 
of  speculation  and  dispute  among  commentators.  They 
nourished  in  times  full  of  spirit  and  lustihood,  when  men 
enjoyed  life  roughly,  but  heartily  and  vigorously:  times 
wild  and  picturesque,  which  have  furnished  poetry  with  its 
richest  materials,  and  the  drama  with  its  most  attractive 
variety  of  characters  and  manners.  The  world  has  become 
more  worldly.  There  is  more  of  dissipation  and  less  enjoy 
ment.  Pleasure  has  expanded  into  a  broader,  but  a  shal 
lower  stream,  and  has  forsaken  many  of  those  deep  and 
quiet  channels,  where  it  flowed  sweetly  through  the  calm 
bosom  of  domestic  life.  Society  has  acquired  a  more  en 
lightened  and  elegant  tone;  but  it  has  lost  many  of  its 
strong  local  peculiarities,  its  homebred  feelings,  its  honest 
fireside  delights.  The  traditionary  customs  of  golden- 
hearted  antiquity,  its  feudal  hospitalities,  and  lordly  was 
sailings,  have  passed  away  with  the  baronial  castles  and 
stately  manor-houses  in  which  they  were  celebrated.  They 
comported  with  the  shadowy  hall,  the  great  oaken  gallery, 
^nd  the  tapestried  parlor,  but  are  unfitted  for  the  light 
showy  saloons  and  gay  drawing-rooms  of  the  modern  villa. 

Shorn,  however,  as  it  is,  of  its  ancient  and  festive  honors, 
Christmas  is  still  a  period  of  delightful  excitement  in  Eng 
land.  It  is  gratifying  to  see  that  home  feeling  completely 
aroused  which  holds  so  powerful  a  place  in  every  English 
bosom.  The  preparations  making  on  every  side  for  the 
social  board  that  is  again  to  unite  friends  and  kindred — 
the  presents  of  good  cheer  passing  and  repassing,  those 
tokens  of  regard  and  quickeners  of  kind  feelings — the  ever 
greens  distributed  about  houses  and  churches,  emblems  of 


CHRISTMAS.  169 

peace  and  gladness — all  these  have  the  most  pleasing  effect 
in  producing  fond  associations,  and  kindling  benevolent 
sympathies.  Even  the  sound  of  the  waits,  rude  as  may  be 
their  minstrelsy,  breaks  upon  the  mid  watches  of  a  winter 
night  with  the  effect  of  perfect  harmony.  As  I  have  been 
awakened  by  them  in  that  still  and  solemn  hour  "when 
deep  sleep  falleth  upon  man,"  I  have  listened  with  a 
hushed  delight,  and  connecting  them  with  the  sacred  and 
joyous  occasion,  have  almost  fancied  them  into  another 
celestial  choir,  announcing  peace  and  good-will  to  mankind. 
How  delightfully  the  imagination,  when  wrought  upon  by 
these  moral  influences,  turns  everything  to  melody  and 
beauty!  The  very  crowing  of  the  cock,  heard  sometimes 
in  the  profound  repose  of  the  country,  "telling  the  night- 
watches  to  his  feathery  dames,"  was  thought  by  the  com 
mon  people  to  announce  the  approach  of  the  sacred  fes 
tival  : 

"  Some  say  that  ever  'gainst  that  season  comes 
Wherein  our  Saviour's  birth  was  celebrated, 
This  bird  of  dawning  singeth  all  night  long: 
And  then,  they  say,  no  spirit  dares  stir  abroad  ; 
The  nights  are  wholesome — then  no  planets  strike, 
No  fairy  takes,  no  witch  hath  power  to  charm, 
So  hallowed  and  so  gracious  is  the  time." 

Amidst  the  general  call  to  happiness,  the  bustle  of  the 
spirits,  and  stir  of  the  affections,  which  prevail  at  this 
period,  what  bosom  can  remain  insensible?  It  is,  indeed, 
the  season  of  regenerated  feeling — the  season  for  kindling 
not  merely  the  fire  of  hospitality  in  the  hall,  but  the  genial 
flame  of  charity  in  the  heart.  The  scene  of  early  love 
again  rises  green  to  memory  beyond  the  sterile  waste  of 
years,  and  the  idea  of  home,  fraught  with  the  fragrance  of 
home-dwelling  joys,  reanimates  the  drooping  spirit — as  the 
Arabian  breeze  will  sometimes  waft  the  freshness  of  the 
distant  fields  to  the  weary  pilgrim  of  the  desert. 

Stranger  and  sojourner  as  I  am  in  the  land — though  for 
me  no  social  hearth  may  blaze,  no  hospitable  roof  throw 
open  its  doors,  nor  the  warm  grasp  of  friendship  welcome 
me  at  the  threshold — yet  I  feel  the  influence  of  the  season 
beaming  into  my  soul  from  the  happy  looks  of  those  around 
me.  Surely  happiness  is  reflective,  like  the  light  of  heaven; 
and  every  countenance  bright  with  smiles,  and  glowing 


170 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


with  innocent  enjoyment,  is  a  mirror  transmitting  to  others 
the  rays  of  a  supreme  and  ever-shining  benevolence.  He 
who  can  turn  churlishly  away  from  contemplating  the  feli 
city  of  his  fellow-beings,  and  can  sit  down  darkling  and 
repining  in  his  loneliness  when  all  around  is  joyful,  may 
have  his  moments  of  strong  excitement  and  selfish  gratifi 
cation,  but  he  wants  the  genial  and  social  sympathies  which 
constitute  the  charm  of  a  merry  Christmas. 


T&E  STAGti-COACJB. 


THE  STAGE-COACH. 

Omne  bene 

Sine  pcena 
Tempus  est  ludendi 

Venit  hora 

Absque  rnora 
Libros  deponendi. 

OLD  HOLIDAY  SCHOOL  SONG. 

IN  the  preceding  paper,  I  have  made  some  general  obser 
vations  on  the  Christmas  festivities  of  England,  and  am 
tempted  to  illustrate  them  by  some  anecdotes  of  a  Christ 
mas  passed  in  the  country;  in  perusing  which,  I  would 
most  courteously  invite  my  reader  to  lay  aside  the  austerity 
of  wisdom,  and  to  put  on  that  genuine  holiday  spirit, 
which  is  tolerant  of  folly  and  anxious  only  for  amusement. 

In  the  course  of  a  December  tour  in  Yorkshire,  I  rode 
for  a  long  distance  in  one  of  the  public  coaches,  on  the 
day  preceding  Christmas.  The  coach  was  crowded,  both 
inside  and  out,  with  passengers,  who,  by  their  talk,  seemed 
principally  bound  to  the  mansions  of  relatives  or  friends,  to 
eat  the  Christmas  dinner.  It  was  loaded  also  with  ham 
pers  of  game,  and  baskets  and  boxes  of  delicacies;  and 
hares  hung  dangling  their  long  ears  about  the  coachman's 
box,  presents  from  distant  friends  for  the  impending  feast. 
I  had  three  fine  rosy-cheeked  school-boys  for  my  fellow- 
passengers  inside,  full  of  the  buxom  health  and  manly 
spirit  which  I  have  observed  in  the  children  of  this  country. 
They  were  returning  home  for  the  holidays,  in  high  glee, 
and  promising  themselves  a  world  of  enjoyment.  It  was 
delightful  to  hear  the  gigantic  plans  of  pleasure  of  the  little 
rogues,  and  the  impracticable  feats  they  were  to  perform 
during  their  six  weeks'  emancipation  from  the  abhorred 
thraldom  of  book,  birch,  and  pedagogue.  They  were  full 
of  the  anticipations  of  the  meeting  with  the  family  and 
household,  down  to  the  very  cat  and  dog;  and  of  the  joy 
they  were  to  give  their  sisters,  by  the  presents  with  which 
their  pockets  were  crammed;  but  the  meeting  to  which 


172  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

they  seemed  to  look  forward  with  the  greatest  impatience 
was  with  Bantam,  which  I  found  to  be  a  pony,  and  accord 
ing  to  their  talk,  possessed  of  more  virtues  than  any  steed 
since  the  days  of  Bucephalus.  How  he  could  trot!  how  he 
could  run!  and  then  such  leaps  as  he  would  take — there 
was  not  a  hedge  in  the  Avhole  country  that  he  could  not 
clear. 

They  were  under  the  particular  guardianship  of  the 
coachman,  to  whom,  whenever  an  opportunity  presented, 
they  addressed  a  host  of  questions,  and  pronounced  him 
one  of  the  best  fellows  in  the  whole  world.  Indeed,  I 
could  not  but  notice  the  more  than  ordinary  air  of  bustle 
and  importance  of  the  coachman,  who  wore  his  hat  a  little 
on  one  side,  and  had  a  large  bunch  of  Christmas  greens  stuck 
in  the  button-hole  of  his  coat.  He  is  always  a  personage 
full  of  mighty  care  and  business;  but  he  is  particularly  so 
during  this  season,  having  so  many  commissions  to  execute 
in  consequence  of  the  great  interchange  of  presents.  And 
here,  perhaps,  it  may  not  be  unacceptable  to  my  untra veiled 
readers  to  have  a  sketch. that  may  serve  as  a  general  repre 
sentation  of  this  very  numerous  and  important  class  of 
functionaries,  who  have  a  dress,  a  manner,  a  language,  an 
air,  peculiar  to  themselves,  and  prevalent  throughout  ine 
fraternity;  so  that,  wherever  an  English  stage-coachman 
may  be  seen,  he  cannot  be  mistaken  for  one  of  any  other 
craft  or  mystery. 

He  has  commonly  a  broad  full  face,  curiousiy  mottled 
with  red,  as  if  the  blood  had  been  forced  by  hard  feeding 
into  every  vessel  of  the  skin;  he  is  swelled  into  jolly 
dimensions  by  frequent  potations  of  malt  liquors,  and  his 
bulk  is  still  farther  increased  by  a  multiplicity  of  coats,  in 
which  he  is  buried  like  a  cauliflower,  the  outer  one  reach 
ing  to  his  heels.  He  wears  a  broad-brimmed  low-crowned 
hat,  a  huge  roll  of  colored  handkerchief  about  his  neck, 
knowingly  knotted  and  tucked  in  at  the  bosom;  and  has  in 
summer-time  a  large  bouquet  of  flowers  in  his  button-hole, 
the  present,  most  probably,  of  some  enamored  country 
lass.  His  waistcoat  is  commonly  of  some  bright  color, 
striped,  and  his  small-clothes  extend  far  below  the  knees, 
to  meet  a  pair  of  jockey  boots  which  reach  about  half-way 
up  his  legs. 

All  this  costume  is  maintained  with  much  precision;  he 


THE  STAG&-COACH.  173 

has  a  pride  in  having  his  clothes  of  excellent  materials, 
and  notwithstanding  the.  seeming  grossness  of  his  appear 
ance,  there  is  still  discernible  that  neatness  and  propriety 
of  person  which  is  almost  inherent  in  an  Englishman. 
He  enjoys  great  consequence  and  consideration  along  the 
road;  has  frequent  conferences  with  the  village  house 
wives,  who  look  upon  him  as  a  man  of  great  trust  and 
dependence;  and  he  seems  to  have  a  good  understanding 
with  every  bright-eyed  country  lass.  The  moment  he 
•Arrives  where  the  horses  are  to  be  changed,  he  throws 
down  the  reins  with  something  of  an  air,  and  abandons  the 
cattle  to  the  care  of  the  hostler;  his  duty  being  merely  to 
drive  them  from  one  stage  to  another.  When  off  the  box, 
his  hands  are  thrust  in  the  pockets  of  his  great-coat,  and 
he  rolls  about  the  inn-yard  with  an  air  of  the  most  absolute 
lordliness.  Here  he  is  generally  surrounded  by  an  admiring 
throng  of  hostlers,  stable-boys,  shoeblacks,  and  those 
nameless  hangers-on  that  infest  inns  and  taverns,  and 
run  errands,  and  do  all  kind  of  odd  jobs,  for  the  privilege 
of  battening  on  the  drippings  of  the  kitchen  and  the  leak 
age  of  the  tap-room.  These  all  look  up  to  him  as  to  an 
oracle;  treasure  up  his  cant  phrases;  echo  his  opinions 
about  horses  and  other  topics  of  jockey  lore;  and  above  all, 
endeavor  to  imitate  his  air  and  carriage.  Every  ragamuffin 
that  has  a  coat  to  his  back  thrusts  his  hands  in  the  pockets, 
rolls  in  his  gait,  talks  slang,  and  is  an  embryo  Coachey. 

Perhaps  it  might  be  owing  to  the  pleasing  serenity  that 
reigned  in  my  own  mind,  that  I  fancied  I  saw  cheerfulness 
in  every  countenance  throughout  the  journey.  A  Stage- 
Coach,  however,  carries  animation  always  with  it,  and  puts 
the  world  in  motion  as  it  whirls  along.  The  horn,  sounded 
at  the  entrance  of  a  village,  produces  a  general  bustle. 
Some  hasten  forth  to  meet  friends;  some  with  bundles  and 
bandboxes  to  secure  places,  and  in  the  hurry  of  the  mo 
ment  can  hardly  take  .leave  of  the  group  that  accompanies 
them.  In  the  meantime,  the  coachman  has  a  world  of 
small  commissions  to  execute;  sometimes  he  delivers  a  hare 
or  pheasant;  sometimes  jerks  a  small  parcel  or  newspaper 
to  the  door  of  a  public  house"  and  sometimes  with  knowing 
leer  and  words  of  sly  import,  hands  to  some  half-blushing, 
half-laughing  housemaid,  an  odd-shaped  billetdoux  from 
some  rustic  admirer.  As  the  coach  rattles  through  the  vil- 


3  74  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

lage,  everyone  runs  to  the  window,  and  you  have  glances 
on  every  side  of  fresh  country  faces,  and  blooming  giggling 
girls.  At  the  corners  are  assembled  juntos  of  village  idlers 
and  wise  men,  who  take  their  stations  there  for  the  import 
ant  purpose  of  seeing  company  pass  but  the  sagest  knot  is 
generally  at  the  blacksmith's,  to  whom  the  passing  of  the 
coach  is  an  event  fruitful  of  much  speculation.  The  smith, 
with  the  horse's  heel  in  his  lap,  pauses  as  the  vehicle 
whirls  by;  the  Cyclops  round  the  anvil  suspend  their  ring 
ing  hammers,  and  suffer  the  iron  to  grow  cool;  and  the 
sooty  spectre  in  brown  paper  cap,  laboring  at  the  bellows, 
leans  on  the  handle  for  a  moment,  and  permits  the  asth 
matic  engine  to  have  a  long-drawn  sigh,  while  he  glares 
through  the  murky  smoke  and  sulphureous  gleams  of  the 
smithy. 

Perhaps  the  impending  holiday  might  have  given  a  more 
than  usv.al  animation  to  the  country,  for  it  seemed  to  me 
as  if  everybody  was  in  good  looks  and  good  spirits.  Game, 

Eoultry,  and  other  luxuries  of  the  table,  were  in  brisk  circu- 
ition  in  the  villages,  the  grocers,  butchers,  and  fruiterers' 
shops  were  thronged  with  customers.  The  housewives 
were  stirring  briskly  about,  putting  their  dwellings  in 
order,,  and  the  glossy  branches  of  holly,  with  their  bright 
red  berries,  began  to  appear  at  the  windows.  The  scene 
brought  to  mind  an  old  .writer's  account  of  Christmas 
preparations.  "Now  capons  and  hens,  besides  turkeys, 
geese,  and  ducks,  with  beef  and  mutton — must  all  die — for 
in  twelve  days  a  multitude  of  people  will  not  be  fed  with  a 
little.  Now  plums  and  spice,  sugar  and  honey,  square  it 
among  pies  and  broth.  Now  or  never  must  music  be  in 
tune,  for  the  youth  must  dance  and  sing  to  get  them  a 
heat,  while  the  aged  sit  by  the  fire.,  The  country  maid 
leaves  half  her  market,  and  must  be  sent  again,  if  she  for 
gets  a  pair  of  cards  on  Christmas  eve.  Great  is  the  conten 
tion  of  Holly  and  Ivy,  whether  master  or  dame  wears  the 
breeches.  Dice  and  cards  benefit  the  butler;  and  if  the 
cook  do  not  lack  wit,  lie  will  sweetly  lick  his  fingers." 

I  was  roused  from  this  fit  of  luxurious  meditation  by  a 
shout  from  my  little  travelling  companions.  They  had 
been  looking  out  of  the  coach-windows  for  the  last  few 
miles,  recognizing  every  tree  and  cottage  as  they  ap 
proached  home,  and  now  there  was  a  general  burst  of  joy 


THE  STAGE-CO  ACE.  175 

— "There's  John!  and  there's  old  Carlo!  and  there's  Ban 
tam!"  cried  the  happy  little  rogues,  clapping  their  hands. 

At  the  end  of  a  lane,  there  was  an  old  sober-looking  ser 
vant  in  livery,  waiting  for  them;  he  was  accompanied  by  a 
superannuated  pointer,  and  by  the  redoubtable  Bantam,  a 
little  old  rat  of  a  pony,  with  a  shaggy  mane  and  long  rusty 
tail,  who  stood  dozing  quietly  by  the  road-side,  little  dream 
ing  of  the  bustling  times  that  awaited  him. 

I  was  pleased  to  see  the  fondness  with  which  the  little 
fellows  leaped  about  the  steady  old  footman,  and  hugged 
the  pointer,  who  wriggled  his  whole  body  for  joy.  But  Ban 
tam  was  the  great  object  of  interest;  all  wanted  to  mount 
at  once,  and  it  was  with  some  difficulty  that  John  arranged 
that  they  should  ride  by  turns,  and  the  eldest  should  ride 
first. 

Off  they  set  at  last;  one  on  the  pony,  with  the  dog  bound 
ing  and  barking  before  him,  and  the  others  holding  John's 
hands;  both  talking  at  once  and  overpowering  him  with 
questions  about  home,  and  with  school  anecdotes.  I  looked 
after  them  with  a  feeling  in  which  I  do  not  know  whether 
pleasure  or  melancholy  predominated;  for  I  was  reminded 
of  those  days  when,  like  them,  1  had  neither  known  care 
nor  sorrow,  and  a  holiday  was  the  summit  of  earthly  felic 
ity.  We  stopped  a  few  moments  afterwards,  to  water  the 
horses;  and  on  resuming  our  route,  a  turn  of  the  road 
brought  us  in  sight  of  a  neat  country-seat.  I  could  just 
distinguish  the  forms  of  a  lady  and  two  young  girls  in  the 
portico,  and  I  saw  my  little  comrades,  with  Bantam,  Carlo, 
and  old  John,  trooping  along  the  carriage  road.  I  leaned 
out  of  the  coach-window,  in  hopes  of  witnessing  the  happy 
meeting,  but  a  grove  of  trees  shut  it  from  my  sight. 

In  the  evening  we  reached  a  village  where  I  had  deter 
mined  to  pass  the  night.  As  we  drove  into  the  great  gate 
way  of  the  inn,  I  saw,  on  one  side,  the  light  of  a  rousing 
kitchen  fire  beaming  through  a  window.  I  entered,  and 
admired  for  the  hundredth  time  that  picture  of  conveni 
ence,  neatness,  and  broad  honest  enjoyment,  the  picture  of 
an  English  inn.  It  was  of  spacious  dimensions,  hung 
round  with  copper  and  tin  vessels  highly  polished,  and  dec 
orated  here  and  there  with  a  Christmas  green.  Hams, 
tongues,  and  flitches  of  bacon  were  suspended  from  the 
ceiling;  a  smoke-jack  made  its  ceaseless  clanking  beside 


176  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

the  fire-place,  and  a  clock  ticked  in  one  corner.  A  well- 
scoured  deal  table  extended  along  one  side  of  the  kitchen, 
with  a  cold  round  of  beef,  and  other  hearty  viands,  upon 
it,  over  which  two  foaming  tankards  of  ale  seemed  mount 
ing  guard.  Travellers  of  inferior  order  were  preparing  to 
attack  this  stout  repast,  while  others  sat  smoking  and  gos 
siping  over  their  ale  on  two  high-backed  oaken  settles 
beside  the  fire.  Trim  housemaids  were  hurrying  back 
wards  and  forwards,  under  the  directions  of  a  bustling 
landlady;  but  still  seizing  an  occasional  moment  to  ex 
change  a  flippant  word,  and  have  a  rallying  laugh,  with 
the  group  round  the  fire.  The  scene  completely  realized 
Poor  Robin's  humble  idea  of  the  comforts  of  mid-winter: 


Now  trees  their  leafy  hats  do  bare 
To  reverence  Winter's  silver  hair; 
A  handsome  hostess,  merry  host, 
A  pot  of  ale  and  now  a  toast, 
Tobacco  and  a  good  coal  fire, 
Are  things  this  season  doth  require.* 

I  had  not  been  long  at  the  inn,  when  a  post-chaise  drove 
up  to  the  door.  A  young  gentleman  stepped  out,  and  by 
the  light  of  the  lamps  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  countenance 
which  L  thought  I  knew.  I  moved  forward  to  get  a  nearer 
view,  when  his  eye  caught  mine.  I  was  not  mistaken;  it 
was  Frank  Bracebridge,  a  sprightly  good-humored  young 
fellow,  with  whom  I  had  once  travelled  on  the  Continent. 
Our  meeting  was  extremely  cordial,  for  the  countenance  of 
an  old  fellow-traveller  always  brings  up  the  recollection  of 
a  thousand  pleasant  scenes,  odd  adventures,  and  excellent 
jokes.  To  discuss  all  these  in  a  transient  interview  at  an 
inn,  was  impossible;  and  finding  that  I  was  not  pressed  for 
time  and  was  merely  making  a  tour  of  observation,  he  in 
sisted  that  I  should  give  him  a  day  or  two  at  his  father's 
country-seat,  to  which  he  was  going  to  pass  the  holidays, 
and  which  lay  at  a  few  miles'  distance.  "It  is  better  than 
eating  a  solitary  Christmas  dinner  at  an  inn,"  said  he, 
"and  I  can  assure  you  of  a  hearty  welcome,  in  something 
of  the  old-fashioned  style."  His  reasoning  was  cogent,  and 
I  must  confess  the  preparation  I  had  seen  for  universal  fes- 

*  Poor  Robin's  Almanack,  1694. 


THE  STAGE-COACH.  177 

tivity  and  social  enjoyment  had  made  me  feel  a  little 
impatient  of  my  loneliness.  I  closed,  therefore,  at  once, 
with  his  invitation;  the  chaise  drove  up  to  the  door,  and  in 
a  few  moments  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  family  mansion  of 
the  Bracebridges. 


1 78  THE  SKETUll-XOOX. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

Saint  Francis  and  Saint  Benedight 
Blesse  this  bouse  from  wicked  wight; 
From  the  night-mare  and  the  goblin, 
That  is  bight  good  fellow  Robin; 
Keep  it  from  all  evil  spirits, 
Fairies,  weazles,  rats,  and  ferrets: 

From  curfew-time 

To  the  next  prime. 

CARTWEIGHT. 

IT  was  a  brilliant  moonlight  night,  but  extremely  cold; 
our  chaise  whirled  rapidly  over  the  frozen  ground;  the 
post-boy  smacked  his  whip  incessantly,  and  a  part  of  the 
time  his  horses  were  on  a  gallop.  "  He  knows  where  he  is 
going,"  said  my  companion,  laughing,  "and  is  eager  to  ar 
rive  in  time  for  some  of  the  merriment  and  good  cheer  of 
the  servants'  hall.  My  father,  you  must  know,  is  a  bigoted 
devotee  of  the  old  school,  and  prides  himself  upon  keeping 
up  something  of  old  English  hospitality.  He  is  a  tolerable 
specimen  of  what  you  will  rarely  meet  with  now-a-days  in 
its  purity, — the  old  English  country  gentleman;  for  our 
men  of  fortune  spend  so  much  of  their  time  in  town,  and 
fashion  is  carried  so  much  into  the  country,  that  the  strong 
rich  peculiarities  of  ancient  rural  life  are  almost  polished 
away.  My  father,  however,  from  early  years,  took  honest 
Peacham*  for  his  text-book,  instead  of  Chesterfield;  he  de 
termined  in  his  own  mind,  that  there  was  no  condition 
more  truly  honorable  and  enviable  than  that  of  a  country 
gentleman  on  his  paternal  lands,  and,  therefore,  passes  the 
whole  of  his  time  on  his  estate.  He  is  a  strenuous  advocate 
for  the  revival  of  the  old  rural  games  and  holiday  observ 
ances,  and  is  deeply  read  in  the  writers,  ancient  and  mod 
ern,  who  have  treated  on  the  subject.  Indeed,  his  favorite 
range  of  reading  is  among  the  authors  who  flourished  at 

*  Peacham's  Complete  Gentleman,  1628. 


CStttSTMAS  EV*.  1?0 

least  two  centuries  since;  who,  he  insists,  wrote  and  thought 
more  like  true  Englishmen  than  any  of  their  successors. 
He  even  regrets  sometimes  that  he  had  not  been  born  a  few 
centuries  earlier,  when  England  was  itself,  and  had  its  pe 
culiar  manners  and  customs.  As  he  lives  at  some  distance 
from  the  main  road,  in  rather  a  lonely  part  of  the  country, 
without  any  rival  gentry  near  him,  he  has  that  most  envi 
able  of  all  blessings  to  an  Englishman,  an  opportunity  of 
indulging  the  bent  of  his  own  humor  without  molestation. 
Being  representative  of  the  oldest  family  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  and  a  great  part  of  the  peasantry  being  his  tenants, 
he  is  much  looked  up  to,  and,  in  general,  is  known  simply 
by  the  appellation  of  'The  Squire;'  a  title  which  has  been 
accorded  to  the  head  of  the  family  since  time  imme 
morial.  I  think  it  best  to  give  you  these  hints  about  my 
worthy  old  father,  to  prepare  you  for  any  little  eccentrici 
ties  that  might  otherwise  appear  absurd." 

We  had  passed  for  some  time  along  the  wall  of  a  park, 
and  at  length  the  chaise  stopped  at  the  gate.  It  was  in  a 
heavy  magnificent  old  style,  of  iron  bars,  fancifully  wrought 
at  top  into  flourishes  and  flowers.  The  huge  square  col 
umns  that  supported  the  gate  were  surmounted  by  the 
family  crest.  Close  adjoining  was  the  porter's  lodge,  shel 
tered  under  dark  fir  trees,  and  almost  buried  in  shrubbery. 

The  post-boy  rang  a  large  porter's  bell,  which  resounded 
through  the  still  frosty  air,  and  was  answered  by  the  dis 
tant  barking  of  dogs,  with  which  the  mansion-house  seemed 
garrisoned.  An  old  woman  immediately  appeared  at  the 
gate.  As  the  moonlight  fell  strongly  upon  her,  I  had  a 
full  view  of  a  little  primitive  dame,  dressed  very  much  in 
antique  taste,  with  a  neat  kerchief  and  stomacher,  and  her 
silver  hair  peeping  from  under  a  cap  of  snowy  whiteness. 
She  came  curtseying  forth  with  many  expressions  of  simple 
joy  at  seeing  her  young  master.  Her  husband,  it  seemed, 
was  up  at  the  house  keeping  Christmas  eve  in  the  servants' 
hall;  they  could  not  do  without  him,  as  he  was  the  best 
hand  at  a  song  and  story  in  the  household. 

My  friend  propo3ed  that  we  should  alight,  and  walk 
through  the  park  to  the  Hall,  which  was  at  no  great  dis 
tance,  while  the  chaise  should  follow  on.  Our  road  wound 
through  a  noble  avenue  of  trees,  among  the  naked  branches 
of  which  the  moon  glittered  as  she  rolled  through  the  deep 


180  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

vault  of  a  cloudless  sky.  The  lawn  beyond  was  sheeted 
with  a  slight  covering  of  snow,  which  here  and  there 
sparkled  as  the  moonbeams  caught  a  frosty  crystal;  and  at 
a  distance  might  be  seen  a  thin  transparent  vapor,  stealing 
up  from  the  low  grounds,  and  threatening  gradually  to 
shroud  the  landscape. 

My  companion  looked  round  him  with  transport: — 
"How  often,"  said  he,  "have  I  scampered  up  this  avenue, 
on  returning  home  on  school  vacations!  How  often  have  I 
played  under  these  trees  when  a  boy!  I  feel  a  degree  of 
filial  reverence  for  them,  as  we  look  up  to  those  who  have 
cherished  us  in  childhood.  My  father  was  always  scrupu 
lous  in  exacting  our  holidays,  and  having  us  around  him  on 
family  festivals.  He  used  to  direct  and  superintend  our 
games  with  the  strictness  that  some  parents  do  the  studies 
of  their  children.  He  was  very  particular  that  we  should 
play  the  old  English  games  according  to  their  original 
form;  and  consulted  old  books  for  precedent  and  authorit} 
for  every  'merrie  disport;'  yet,  I  assure  you,  there  never 
was  pedantry  so  delightful.  It  was  the  policy  of  the  good 
old  gentleman  to  make  his  children  feel  that  home  was  th(j 
happiest  place  in  the  _world,  and  I  value  this  delicious  j 
home  feeling  as  one  of  the  choicest  gifts  a  parent  coul 
bestow." 

We  were  interrupted  by  the  clamor  of  a  troop  of  dogs  o 
all  sorts  and  sizes,  "mongrel,  puppy,  whelp  and  hound 
and  curs  of  low  degree,"  that,  disturbed  by  the  ringing  o 
the  porter's  bell  and  the  rattling  of  the  chaise,  came  bound 
ing  open-mouthed  across  the  lawn. 

"  —  —The  little  dogs  and  all, 

Tray,  Blanche,  and  Sweetheart,  see,  they  bark  at  ine!" 

cried  Bracebridge,  laughing.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice 
the  bark  was  changed  into  a  yelp  of  delight,  and  in  a  me 
ment  he  was  surrounded  and  almost  overpowered  by  th 
caresses  of  the  faithful  animals. 

We  had  now  come  in  full  view  of  the  old  family  mar 
sion,  partly  thrown  in  deep  shadow,  and  partly  lit  up  b 
the  cold  moonshine.  It  was  an  irregular  building  of  som 
magnitude,  and  seemed  to  be  of  the  architecture  of  diffei 
ent  periods.  One  wing  was  evidently  very  ancient,  wit 
heavy  stone-shafted  bow  windows  jutting  out  and  overru 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  181 

with  ivy,  from  among  the  foliage  of  which  the  small  dia 
mond-shaped  panes  of  glass  glittered  with  the  moonbeams. 
The  rest  of  the  house  was  in  the  French  taste  of  Charles 
the  Second's  time,  having  been  repaired  and  altered,  as  my 
friend  told  me,  by  one  of  his  ancestors,  who  returned  with 
that  monarch  at  the  Restoration.  The  grounds  about  the 
house  were  laid  out  in  the  old  formal  manner  of  artificial 
flower-beds,  clipped  shrubberies,  raised  terraces,  and  heavy 
stone  ballustrades,  ornamented  with  urns,  a  leaden  statue 
or  two,  and  a  jet  of  water.  The  old  gentleman,  I  was  told, 
was  extremely  careful  to  preserve  this  obsolete  finery  in  all 
its  original  state.  He  admired  this  fashion  in  gardening; 
it  had  an  air  of  magnificence,  was  courtly  and  noble,  and 
befitting  good  old  family  style.  The  boasted  imitation  of 
nature  and  modern  gardening  had  sprung  up  with  modern 
republican  notions,  but  did  not  suit  a  monarchical  govern 
ment — it  smacked  of  the  levelling  system.  I  could  not 
help  smiling  at  this  introduction  of  politics  into  gardening, 
though  I  expressed  some  apprehension  that  I  should  find 
the  old  gentleman  rather  intolerant  in  his  creed.  Frank 
assured  me,  however,  that  it  was  almost  the  only  instance 
in  which  he  had  ever  heard  his  father  meddle  with  politics; 
and  he  believed  he  had  got  this  notion  from  a  member  of 
Parliament,  who  once  passed  a  few  weeks  with  him.  The 
'Squire  was  glad  of  any  argument  to  defend  his  clipped 
yew  trees  and  formal  terraces,  which  had  been  occasionally 
attacked  by  modern  landscape  gardeners. 

As  we  approached  the  house,  we  heard  the  sound  oi 
mnsic,  and  now  and  then  a  burst  of  laughter,  from  one  end 
of  the  building.  This,  Bracebridge  said,  must  proceed 
from  the  servants'  hall,  where  a  great  deal  of  revelry  was 
permitted,  and  even  encouraged,  by  the  'Squire,  through 
out  the  twelve  days  of  Christmas,  provided  every  thing  was 
done  conformably  to  ancient  usage.  Here  were  kept  up  the 
old  games  of  hoodman  blind,  shoe  the  wild  mare,  hot 
cockles,  steal  the  white  loaf,  bob-apple,  and  snap-dragon; 
the  Yule  clog,  and  Christmas  candle,  were  regularly  burnt, 
and  the  mistletoe,  with  its  white  berries,  hung  up,  to  the 
imminent  peril  of  all  the  pretty  house-maids.* 

*The  mistletoe  is  still  hung  up  in  farm-houses  and  kitchens,  at  Christ 
mas  ;  and  the  young  men  have  the  privilege  of  kissing  the  girls  under  it, 
plucking  each  time  a  berry  from  the  bush.  When  the  berries  are  all  plucked, 
the  privilege  ceases. 


182  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

So  intent  were  the  servants  upon  their  sports,  that  w 
had  to  ring  repeatedly  before  we  could  make  ourselve 
heard.  On  our  arrival  being  announced,  the  'Squire  cam 
out  to  receive  us,  accompanied  by  his  two  other  sons;  one 
young  officer  in  the  army,  home  on  leave  of  absence;  th 
other  an  Oxonian,  just  from  the  university.  The  'Squir 
was  a  fine  healthy-looking  old  gentleman,  with  silver  hai 
curling  lightly  round  an  open  florid  countenance;  in  whic 
a  physiognomist,  with  the  advantage,  like  myself,  of 
previous  hint  or  two,  might  discover  a  singular  mixture  c 
whim  and  benevolence. 

The  family  meeting  was  warm  and  affectionate;  as  th 
evening  was  far  advanced,  the  'Squire  would  not  permit  n 
to  change  our  travelling  dresses,  but  ushered  us  at  once  t 
the  company,  which  was  assembled  in  a  large  old-fashione 
hall.  It  was  composed  of  different  branches  of  a  numerou 
family  connection,  where  there  were  the  usual  proportior 
of  old  uncles  and  aunts,  comfortable  married  dames,  supei 
animated  spinsters,  blooming  country  cousins,  half-fledge 
striplings,  aud  bright-eyed  boarding-school  hoydens.  The 
were  variously  occupied;  some  at  a  round  game  of  cards 
others  conversing  round  the  fire-place;  at  one  end  of  th 
hall  was  a  group  of  the  young  folks,  some  nearly  grown  uj 
others  of  a  more  tender  and  budding  age,  fully  engrossed  b 
a  merry  game;  and  a  profusion  of  wooden  horses,  penn 
trumpets,  and  tattered  dolls  about  the  floor,  showed  tract 
of  a  troop  of  little  fairy  beings,  who,  having  frolicke 
through  a  happy  day,  had  been  carried  off  to  slumbe 
through  a  peaceful  night. 

While  the  mutual  greetings  were  going  on  betwee 
young  Bracebridge  and  his  relatives,  I  had  time  to  scan  th 
apartment.  I  have  called  it  a  hall,  for  so  it  liad  certainl 
been  in  old  times,  ana  the  'Squire  had  evidently  endeavore 
to  restore  it  to  something  of  its  primitive  state.  Over  th 
heavy  projecting  fire-place  was  suspended  a  picture  of 
warrior  in  armor,  standing  by  a  white  horse,  and  on  th 
opposite  wall  hung  ;:  helmet,  buckler,  and  lance.  At  on 
end  an  enormous  pair  of  antlers  were  inserted  in  the  wal 
the  branches  serving  as  hooks  on  which  to  suspend  hats 
whips,  and  spurs;  and  in  the  corners  of  the  apartment  wer 
fowling-pieces,  fishing-rods,  and  other  sporting  impl< 
ments.  The  furniture  was  of  the  cumbrous  workmaushi 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  183 

of  former  days,  though  some  articles  of  modern  conveni 
ence  had  been  added,  and  the  oaken  floor  had  been  car 
peted  ;  so  that  the  whole  presented  an  odd  mixture  of  parlor 
and  hall. 

The  grate  had  been  removed  from  the  wide  overwhelm 
ing  fire-place,  to  make  way  for  a  fire  of  wood,  in  the  midst 
of  which  was  an  enormous  log,  glowing  and  blazing,  and 
sending  forth  a  vast  volume  of  light  and  heat;  this  I  under 
stood  was  the  yule  clog,  which  the  'Squire  was  particular  in 
having  brought  in  and  illumined  on  a  Christmas  eve, 
according  to  ancient  custom.* 

It  was  really  delightful  to  see  the  old  'Squire,  seated  in 
his  hereditary  elbow-chair,  by  the  hospitable  fireside  of  his 
ancestors,  and  looking  around  him  like  the  sun  of  a  system, 
beaming  warmth  and  gladness  to  every  heart.  Even  the 
very  dog  that  lay  stretched  at  his  feet,  as  he  lazily  shifted 
his  position  and  yawned,  would  look  fondly  up  in  his 
master's  face,  wag  his  tail  against  the  floor,  and  stretch 
himself  again  to  sleep,  confident  of  kindness  and  pro 
tection.  There  is  an  emanation  from  the  heart  in  genuine 
hospitality,  which  cannot  be  described,  but  is  immediately 
felt,  and  puts  the  stranger  at  once  at  his  ease.  I  had  not 
been  seated  many  minutes  by  the  comfortable  hearth  of  the 
worthy  old  cavalier,  before  I  found  myself  as  much  at 
home  as  if  I  had  been  one  of  the  family. 

Supper  was  announced  shortly  after  our  arrival.  It  was 
served  up  in  a  spacious  oaken  chamber,  the  panels  of  which 

*  The  yule  dog  is  a  great  log  of  wood,  sometimes  the  root  of  a  tree  brought 
into  the  house  with  great  ceremony,  on  Christmas  eve,  laid  in  the  fire-place, 
and  lighted  with  the  brand  of  last  year's  clog.  While  it  lasted,  there  was 
great  drinking,  singing,  and  telling  of  tales.  Sometimes  it  was  accompanied 
by  Christmas  candles  ;  but  in  the  cottages,  the  only  light  was  from  the  ruddy 
blaze  of  the  great  wood  fire.  The  yule  clog  was  to  burn  all  night :  if  it  went 
out,  it  was  considered  a  sign  of  ill  luck. 

Herrick  mentions  it  in  one  of  his  songs : 

Come  bring  with  a  noise, 

My  merrie,  merrie  boys. 
The  Christmas  Log  to  the  firing; 

While  my  good  dame  she 

Bids  ye  all  be  free. 
And  drink  to  your  hearts  desiring. 

The  yule  clog  is  still  burnt  in  many  farm-houses  and  kitchens  in  England, 
particularly  in  the  north ;  and  there  are  several  superstitions  connected  with 
it  among  the  peasantry.  If  a  squinting  person  come  to  the  house  while  it  is 
burning,  or  a  person  barefooted,  it  is  considered  an  ill  omen.  The  brand 
i  remaining  from  the  yule  clog  is  carefully  put  away  to  light  the  next  year't 
Christmas  fire. 


184  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

shone  with  wax,  and  around  which  were  several  family  p 
traits  decorated  with  holly  and  ivy.  Beside  the  ace  I 
tomed  lights,  two  great  wax  tapers,  called  Christnj 
candles,  wreathed  with  greens,  were  placed  on  a  higlj 
polished  beaufet  among  the  family  plate.,  The  table  v  I 
abundantly  spread  with  substantial  fare;  but  the  'Squ  I 
made  his  supper  of  frumenty,  a  dish  made  of  wheat  cal  I 
boiled  in  milk  with  rich  spices,  being  a  standing  dish  I 
old  times  for  Christmas  eve.  I  was  happy  to  find  my  <  I 
friend,  minced  pie,  in  the  retinue  of  the  feast;  and  findi  I 
him  to  be  perfectly  orthodox,  and  that  I  need  not  I 
ashamed  of  my  predilection,  I  greeted  him  with  all  il 
warmth  wherewith  we  usually  greet  an  old  and  very  gent  I 
acquaintance. 

The  mirth  of  the  company  was  greatly  promoted  by  il 
humors  of  an  eccentric  personage  whom  Mr.  Bracebriol 
always  addressed  with  the  quaint  appellation  of  Mas  r 
Simon.  He  was  a  tight  brisk  little  man,  with  the  air  of  I 
arrant  old  bachelor.  His  nose  was  shaped  like  the  bill  o  I 
parrot;  his  face  slightly  pitted  with  the  small-pox,  witll 
dry  perpetual  bloom  on  it,  like  a  frost-bitten  leaf  I 
autumn.  He  had  an  eye  of  great  quickness  and  vivaci  I 
with  a  drollery  and  lurking  waggery  of  expression  that  vl 
irresistible.  He  was  evidently  the  wit  of  the  family,  de  I 
ing  very  much  in  sly  jokes  and  innuendoes  with  the  ladi  I 
and  making  infinite  merriment  by  harpings  upon  <| 
themes;  which,  unfortunately,  my  ignorance  of  the  faml 
chronicles  did  not  permit  me  to  enjoy*  It  seemed  to  I 
his  great  delight,  during  supper,  to  keep  a  young  girl  n<| 
him  in  a  continual  agony  of  stifled  laughter,  in  spite  of  Ir 
awe  of  the  reproving  looks  of  her  mother^  who  sat  opposi  I 
Indeed,  he  was  the  idol  of  the  younger  part  of  the  co  | 
pany,  who  laughed  at  everything  he  said  or  did,  and  I 
every  turn  of  his  countenance,,  I  could  not  wonder  at  I 
for  he  must  have  been  a  miracle  of  accomplishments  I 
their  eyes.  He  could  imitate  Punch  and  Judy;  make  I 
old  woman  of  his  hand;  with  the  assistance  of  a  burnt  cc  | 
and  pockt-haudkerchief;  and  cut  an  orange  into  suchl 
ludicrous  caricature,  that  the  young  folks  were  ready  1 
die  with  laughing. 

I  was  let  briefly  into  his  history  by  Frank  Bracebrid|I 
He  was  an  old  bachelor,  of  a  small  independent  incont 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  185 

which,  by  careful  management,  was  sufficient  for  all  his 
wants.  He  revolved  through  the  family  system  like  a 
vagrant  cornet  in  its  orbit,  sometimes  visiting  one  branch, 
and  sometimes  another  quite  remote,  as  is  often  the  case 
with  gentlemen  of  extensive  connections  and  small  fortunes 
in  England.  He  had  a  chirping,  buoyant  disposition, 
always  enjoying  the  present  moment;  and  his  frequent 
change  of  scene  and  company  prevented  his  acquiring  those 
rusty,  unaccommodating  habits,  with  which  old  bachelors 
are  so  uncharitably  charged.  He  was  a  complete  family 
chronicle,  being  versed  in  the  genealogy,  history,  and 
intermarriages  of  the  whole  house  of  Bracebridge,  which 
made  him  a  great  favorite  with  the  old  folks;  he  was  a 
beau  of  all  the  elder  ladies  and  superannuated  spinsters, 
among  whom  he  was  habitually  considered  rather  a  young 
fellow,  and  he  was  master  of  the  revels  among  the  children; 
so  that  there  was  not  a  more  popular  being  in  the  sphere 
in  which  he  moved,  than  Mr.  Simon  Bracebridge.  Of  late 
years,  he  had  resided  almost  entirely  with  the  'Squire,  to 
whom  he  had  become  a  factotum,  and  whom  he  particu 
larly  delighted  by  jumping  with  his  humor  in  respect  to 
old  times,  and  by  having  a  scrap  of  an  old  song  to  suit 
every  occasion.  We  had  presently  a  specimen  of  his  last- 
mentioned  talent;  for  no  sooner  was  supper  removed,  and 
spiced  wines  and  other  beverages  peculiar  to  the  season 
introduced,  than  Master  Simon  was  called  on  for  a  good 
old  Christmas  song.  He  bethought  himself  for  a  moment, 
and  then,  with  a  sparkle  of  the  eye,  and  a  voice  that  was 
by  no  means  bad,  excepting  that  it  ran  occasionally  into  a 
falsetto,  like  the  notes  of  a  split  reed,  he  quavered  forth  a 
quaint  old  ditty: 

Now  Christmas  is  come, 

Let  us  beat  up  the  drum, 
And  call  all  our  neighbors  together ; 

And  when  they  appear, 

Let  us  make  such  a  cheer, 
As  will  keep  out  the  wind  and  the  weather,  &c. 

The  supper  had  disposed  every  one  to  gayety,  and  an  old 
harper  was  summoned  from  the  servants'  hall,  where  he 
had  been  strumming  all  the  evening,  and  to  all  appearance 
comforting  himself  with  some  of  the  'Squire's  home-brewed. 


186  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

He  was  a  kind  of  hanger-on,  I  was  told,  of  the  establisl 
ment,  and  though  ostensibly  a  resident  of  the  village,  w, 
oftener  to  be  found  in  the  'Squire's  kitchen  than  his  o\\ 
home;  the  old  gentleman  being  fond  of  the  sound  of  "Hai 
in  hall." 

The  dance,  like  most  dances  after  supper,  was  a  mer 
one;  some  of  the  older  folks  joined  in  it,  and  the  'Sqni 
himself  figured  down  several  couple  with  a  partner  wil 
whom  he  affirmed  he  had  danced  at  every  Christmas  £ 
nearly  half  a  century.  Master  Simon,  who  seemed  to  1 
a  kind  of  connecting  link  between  the  old  times  and  tl 
new,  and  to  be  withal  a  little  antiquated  in  the  tastes  of  h 
accomplishments,  evidently  piqued  himself  on  his  dancin, 
and  was  endeavoring  to  gain  credit  by  the  heel  and  to 
rigadoon,  and  other  graces  of  the  ancient  school:  but  1 
had  unluckily  assorted  himself  with  a  little  romping  gi 
from  boarding-school,  who,  by  her  wild  vivacity,  kept  hi 
continually  on  the  stretch,  and  defeated  all  his  sober  a 
tempts  at  elegance: — such  are  the  ill-sorted  matches 
which  antique  gentlemen  are  unfortunately  prone. 

The  young  Oxonian,  on  the  contrary,  had  led  out  one 
his  maiden  aunts,  on  whom  the  rogue  played  a  thousai: 
little  knaveries  with  impunity,  he  was  full  of  practic 
jokes,  and  his  delight  was  to  tease  his  aunts  and  cousin 
yet,  like  all  madcap  youngsters,  he  was  a  universal  favori 
among  the  women.  The  most  interesting  couple  in  tl 
dance  was  the  young  officer,  and  a  ward  of  the  'Squire's, 
beautiful  blushing  girl  of  seventeen.  From  several  si 

fiances  which  I  had  noticed  in  the  course  of  the  evenin 
suspected  there  was  a  little  kindness  growing  up  betwet 
them;  and,  indeed,  the  young  soldier  was  just  the  hero 
captivate  a  romantic  girl.  He  was  tall,  slender,  and  hani 
some;  and,  like  most  young  British  officers  of  late  year 
had  picked  up  various  small  accomplishments  on  the  Conl 
nent — he  could  talk  French  and  Italian — draw  landscap 
— sing  very  tolerably — dance  divinely;  but  above  all,  ] 
had  been  wounded  at  Waterloo; — what  girl  of  seventee 
well  read  in  poetry  and  romance,  could  resist  such  a  mirn 
of  chivalry  and  perfection? 

The  moment  the  dance  was  over,  he  caught  up  a  guita 
and  lolling  against  the  old  marble  fire-place,  in  an  attitiu 
which  I  am  half  inclined  to  suspect  was  studied,  began  tl 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  187 

little  French  air  of  the  Troubadour.  The  'Squire,  how 
ever,  exclaimed  against  having  anything  on  Christmas  eve 
but  good  old  English;  upon  which  the  young  minstrel, 
casting  up  his  eye  for  a  moment,  as  if  in  an  effort  of  mem- 
mory,  struck  into  another  strain,  and  with  a  charming  air 
of  gallantry,  gave  Herrick's  "  Night- Piece  to  Julia:" 

Her  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  thee, 
The  shooting  stars  attend  thee, 

And  the  elves  also, 

Whose  little  eyes  glow 
Like  the  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee. 

No  Will-o'-th'-Wisp  mislight  thee; 
Nor  snake  or  slow -worm  bite  thee; 

But  on,  on  thy  way, 

Not  making  a  stay, 
Since  ghost  there  is  none  to  affright  thee. 

Then  let  not  the  dark  thee  cumber; 
What  though  the  moon  does  slumber, 

The  stars  of  the  night 

Will  lend  thee  their  light, 
Like  tapers  clear  without  number. 

Then,  Julia,  let  me  woo  thee, 
Thus,  thus  to  come  unto  me: 

And  when  I  shall  meet 

Thy  silvery  feet 
My  soul  I'll  pour  into  thee. 

The  song  might  or  might  not  have  been  intended  in  com 
pliment  to  the  fair  Julia,  for  so  I  found  his  partner  was 
called;  she,  however,  was  certainly  unconscious  of  any  such 
application;  for  she  never  looked  at  the  singer,  but  kept  her 
eyes  cast  upon  the  floor;  her  face  was  suffused,  it  is  true, 
with  a  beautiful  blush,  and  there  was  a  gentle  heaving  of 
the  bosorn,  but  all  that  was  doubtless  caused  by  the  exercise 
of  the  dance;  indeed,  so  great  was  her  indifference,  that  she 
was  amusing  herself  with  plucking  to  pieces  a  choice  bou 
quet  of  hot-house  flowers,  and  by  the  time  the  song  was 
concluded  the  nosegay  lay  in  ruins  on  the  floor. 

The  party  now  broke  up  the  night  with  the  kind-hearted 
old  custom  of  shaking  hands.  As  I  passed  through  the 
hall  on  my  way  to  my  chamber,  the  dying  embers  of  the 
yule  clog  still  sent  forth  a  dusky  glow;  and  had  it  not  been 


188  THE  SKETCH-POOS'. 

the  season  when  "no  spirit  dares  stir  abroad/'  I  shou 
have  been  half  tempted  to  steal  from  my  room  at  midnigh 
and  peep  whether  the  fairies  might  not  be  at  their  revt 
about  the  hearth. 

My  chamber  was  in  the  old  part  of  the  mansion,  the  po 
derous  furniture  of  which  might  have  been  fabricated 
the  days  of  the  giants.     The  room  was  panelled,  with  co 
nices  of  heavy  carved  work,  in  which  flowers  and  grotesqi 
faces  were  strangely  intermingled,  and  a   row  of  blue 
looking  portraits  stared  mournfully  at  me  from  the  wall 
The  bed  was  of  rich,  though  faded  damask,  with  a  lof 
tester,  and  stood  in  a  niche  opposite  a  bow-window.     I  hi 
scarcely  got  into  bed  when  a  strain  of  music  seemed 
break  forth  in  the  air  just  below  the  window.     I  listene 
and  found  it  proceeded  from  a  band,  which  I  concluded 
be  the  waits  from  some  neighboring  village.     They  we 
round  the  house,  playing  under  the  windows.    I  drew  asii 
the  curtains,  to  hear  them  more  distinctly.     The  moo 
beams  fell  through  the  upper  part  of  the  casement,  partial 
lighting  up  the   antiquated  apartment.     The  sounds, 
they  receded,  became  more  soft  and  aerial,  and  seemed 
accord  with  quiet  and  moonlight.     I  listened  and  listein 
— they  became  more  and  more  tender  and  remote,  and. 
they  gradually  died  away,  my  head  sunk  upon  the  pilkr 
and  I  fell  asleep. 


CHRISTMAS  DAT.  189 


CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

Dark  and  dull  night  flie  hence  away, 
And  give  the  honor  to  this  day 
That  sees  December  turned  to  May. 
***** 
Why  does  the  chilling  winter's  morne 
Sinile  like  a  field  beset  with  corn? 
Or  smell  like  to  a  rneade  new-shorne, 
Thus  on  a  sudden? — come  and  see 
The  cause  why  things  thus  fragrant  be. 

HERRICK. 

I  woke  the  next  morning,  it  seemed  as  if  all  the 
events  of  the  preceding  evening  had  been  a  dream,  and 
nothing  but  the  identity  of  the  ancient  chamber  convinced 
me  of  their  reality.  While  I  lay  musing  on  my  pillow,  I 
heard  the  sound  of  little  feet  pattering  outside  of  the  door, 
and  a  whispering  consultation.  Presently  a  choir  of  small 
voices  chanted  forth  an  old  Christmas  carol,  the  burden  of 
which  was — 

Rejoice,  our  Saviour  he  was  born 
On  Christmas  day  in  the  morning. 

I  rose  softly,  slipt  on  my  clothes,  opened  the  door  sud 
denly,  and  beheld  one  of  the  most  beautiful  little  fairy 
groups  that  a  painter  could  imagine.  It  consisted  of  a  boy  and 
two  girls,  the  eldest  not  more  than  six,  and  lovely  as  seraphs. 
They  were  going  the  rounds  of  the  house,  singing  at  every 
chamber  door,  but  my  sudden  appearance  frightened  them 
into  mute  bashfulness.  They  remained  for  a  moment 
playing  on  their  lips  with  their  fingers,  and  now  and  then 
stealing  a  shy  glance  from  under  their  eyebrows,  until,  as 
if  by  one  impulse,  they  scampered  away,  and  as  they  turned 
an  angle  of  the  gallery,  I  heard  them  laughing  in  triumph 
at  their  escape. 

Everything  conspired  to  produce  kind  and  happy  feelings, 
in  this  stronghold  of  old  fashioned  hospitality.  The  win 
dow  of  my  chamber  looked  out  upon  what  in  summer  would 


190  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

have  been  a  beautiful  landscape.  There  was  a  sloping  lawn 
a  fine  stream  winding  at  the  foot  of  it,  and  a  tract  of  part 
beyond,  with  noble  clumps  of  trees,  and  herds  of  deer.  Ai 
a  distance  was  a  neat  hamlet,  with  the  smoke  from  the  cot 
tage  chimneys  hanging  over  it;  and  a  church,  with  its  dail 
spire  in  strong  relief  against  the  clear  cold  sky.  The  house 
was  surrounded  with  evergreens,  according  to  the  Englisl 
custom,  which  would  have  given  almost  an  appearance  o: 
summer;  but  the  morning  was  extremely  frosty;  the  lighi 
vapor  of  the  preceding  evening  had  been  precipitated  03 
the  cold,  and  covered  all  the  trees  and  every  blade  of  grass 
with  fine  crystallizations.  The  rays  of  a  bright  mornin| 
sun  had  a  dazzling  effect  amoug  the  glittering  foliage.  A 
robin  perched  upon  the  top  of  a  mountain  ash,  that  hun| 
its  clusters  of  red  berries  just  before  my  window,  was  bask 
ing  himself  in  the  sunshine,  and  piping  a  few  querulous 
notes;  and  a  peacock  was  displaying  all  the  glories  of  his 
train,  and  strutting  with  the  pride  and  gravity  of  a  Spanisl 
grandee  on  the  terrace-walk  below. 

I  had  scarcely  dressed  myself,  when  a  servant  appeared 
to  invite  me  to  family  prayers.  He  showed  me  the  way  tc 
a  small  chapel  in  the  old  wing  of  the  house,  where  I  fouiu" 
the  principal  part  of  the  family  already  assembled  in  i 
kind  of  gallery,  furnished  with  cushions,  hassocks,  anc 
large  prayer-books;  the  servants  were  seated  on  benches 
below.  The  old  gentleman  read  prayers  from  a  desk  ir 
front  of  the  gallery,  and  Master  Simon  acted  as  clerk  anc 
made  the  responses;  and  I  must  do  him  the  justice  to  say, 
that  he  acquitted  himself  with  great  gravity  and  decorum, 

The  service  was  followed  by  a  Christmas  carol,  which  Mr. 
Bracebridge  himself  had  constructed  from  a  poem  of  his 
favorite  author,  Herrick;  and  it  had  been  adapted  to  i 
church  melody  by  Master  Simon.  As  there  were  severa" 
good  voices  among  the  household,  the  effect  was  extremel} 
pleasing;  but  I  was  particularly  gratified  by  the  exaltatior 
of  heart,  and  sudden  sally  of  grateful  feeling,  with  whicr 
the  worthy  'Squire  delivered  one  stanza;  his  eye  glistening. 
and  his  voice  rambling  out  of  all  the  bounds  of  time  and 
tune: 

"  Tis  tliou  that  crown'st  my  glittering  hearth 

With  guiltless  mirth, 
And  giv'st  me  Wassaile  bowles  to 
Spic'd  to  the  brink: 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  191 

Lord,  'tis  thy  plenty-dropping  hand 

That  soiles  my  land  : 
And  giv'st  rue  for  my  bushell  sowne, 

Twice  ten  for  one." 

I  afterwards  understood  that  early  morning  service  was 
read  on  every  Sunday  and  saint's  day  throughout  the  year, 
either  by  Mr.  Bracebridge  or  some  member  of  the  family. 
It  was  once  almost  universally  the  case  at  the  seats  of  the 
nobility  and  gentry  of  England,  and  it  is  much  to  be  re 
gretted  that  the  custom  is  falling  into  neglect;  lor  the 
dullest  observer  must  be  sensible  of  the  order  and  serenity 
prevalent  in  those  households,  where  the  occasional  exer 
cise  of  a  beautiful  form  of  worship  in  the  morning  gives, 
as  it  were,  the  key-note  to  every  temper  for  the  day,  and 
attunes  every  spirit  to  harmony. 

Our  breakfast  consisted  of  what  the  'Squire  denominated 
true  old  English  fare.  He  indulged  in  some  bitter  lamen 
tations  over  modern  breakfasts  of  tea  and  toast,  which  he 
censured  as  among  the  causes  of  modern  effeminacy  and 
weak  nerves,  and  the  decline  of  old  English  heartiness; 
and  though  he  admitted  them  to  his  table  to  suit  the 
palates  of  his  guests,  yet  there  was  a  brave  display  of  cold 
meats,  wine,  and  ale,  on  the  sideboard. 

After  breakfast,  I  walked  about  the  grounds  with  Frank 
Bracebridge  and  Master  Simon,  or  Mr.  Simon,  as  he  was 
called  by  everybody  but  the  'Squire.  We  were  escorted  by 
a  number  of  gentlemen-like  dogs,  that  seemed  loungers 
about  the  establishment;  from  the  frisking  spaniel  to  the 
steady  old  stag- hound — the  last  of  which  was  of  a  race  that 
had  been  in  the  family  time  out  of  mind— they  were  all 
obedient  to  a  dog-whistle  which  hung  to  Master  Simon's 
button-hole,  and  in  the  midst  of  their  gambols  would 
glance  an  eye  occasionally  upon  a  small  switch  he  carried 
in  his  hand. 

The  old  mansion  had  a  still  more  venerable  look  in  the 
yellow  sunshine  than  by  pale  moonlight;  and  I  could  nob 
but  feel  the  force  of  the  'Squire's  idea,  that  the  formal  ter 
races,  heavily  moulded  balustrades,  and  clipped  yew  trees, 
carried  with  them  an  air  of  proud  aristocracy. 

There  appeared  to  be  an  unusual  number  of  peacocks 
about  the  place,  and  I  was  making  some  remarks  upon 
what  I  termed  a  flock  of  them  that  were  basking  under  a 


192  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

sunny  wall,  when  I  was  gently  corrected  in  my  phraseology 
by  Master  Simon,  who  told  me  that  according  to  the  most 
ancient  and  approved  treatise  on  hunting,  I  must  say  a 
muster  of  peacocks.  "  In  the  same  way/'  added  he,  with  a 
slight  air  of  pedantry,  "  we  saw  a  flight  of  doves  or  swal 
lows,  a  bevy  of  quails,  a  herd  of  deer,  of  wrens,  or  cranes, 
a  skulk  of  foxes,  or  a  building  of  rooks."  He  went  on  to 
inform  me  that,  according  to  Sir  Anthony  Fitzherbert,  we 
ought  to  ascribe  to  this  bird  "both  understanding  and 
glory;  for,  being  praised,  he  will  presently  set  up  his  tail, 
chiefly  against  the  sun,  to  the  intent  you  may  the  better 
behold  the  beauty  thereof.  But  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf, 
when  his  tail  falleth,  he  will  mourn  and  hide  himself  in 
corners,  till  his  tail  come  again  as  it  was." 

I  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  display  of  small  erudition 
on  so  whimsical  a  subject;  but  I  found  that  the  peacocks 
were  birds  of  some  consequence  at  the  Hall;  for  Frank 
Bracebridge  informed  me  that  they  were  great  favorites 
with  his  father,  who  was  extremely  careful  to  keep  up  the 
breed,  partly  because  they  belonged  to  chivalry,  and  were 
in  great  request  at  the  stately  banquets  of  the  olden  time; 
and  partly  because  they  had  a  pomp  and  magnificence 
about  them  highly  becoming  an  old  family  mansion. 
Nothing,  he  was  accustomed  to  say,  had  an  air  of  greater 
state  and  dignity,  .than  a  peacock  perched  upon  an  an 
tique  stone  balustrade. 

Master  Simon  had  now  to  hurry  off,  having  an  appoint 
ment  at  the  parish  church  with  the  village  choristers,  who 
were  to  perform  some  music  of  his  selection.  There  was 
something  extremely  agreeable  in  the  cheerful  flow  of  ani 
mal  spirits  of  the  little  man;  and  I  confess  that  I  had  been 
somewhat  surprised  at  his  apt  quotations  from  authors  who 
certainly  were  not  in  the  range  of  every-day  reading.  I 
mentioned  this  last  circumstance  to  Frank  Bracebridge, 
who  told  me  with  a  smile  that  Master  Simon's  whole  stock 
of  erudition  was  confined  to  some  half-a-dozen  old  authors, 
which  the  'Squire  had  put  into  his  hands,  and  which  he 
read  over  and  over,  whenever  he  had  a  studious  fit;  as  he 
sometimes  had  on  a  rainy  day,  or  a  long  winter  evening. 
Sir  Anthony  Fitzherbert's  Book  of  Husbandry;  Markham's 
Country  Contentments;  the  Tretyse  of  Hunting,  by  'Sir 
Thomas  Cockayne,  Knight;  Izaak  Walton's  Angler,  and 


CHRISTMAS  DA  T.  1 93 

two  or  three  more  such  ancient  worthies  of  the  pen,  were 
his  standard  authorities;  and,  like  all  men  who  know  but 
a  few  books,  he  looked  up  to  them  with  a  kind  of  idolatry, 
and  quoted  them  on  all  occasions.  As  to  his  songs,  they 
were  chiefly  picked  out  of  old  books  in  the  'Squire's 
library,  and  adapted  to  tunes  that  were  popular  among 
the  choice  spirits  of  the  last  century.  His  practical  appli 
cation  of  scraps  of  literature,  however,  had  caused  him  to 
be  looked  upon  as  a  prodigy  of  book-knowledge  by  all  the 
grooms,  huntsmen,  and  small  sportsmen  of  the  neighbor 
hood. 

While  we  were  talking,  we  heard  the  distant  toll  of  the 
village  bell,  and  I  was  told  that  the  'Squire  was  a  little  par 
ticular  in  having  his  household  at  church  on  a  Christmas 
morning;  considering  it  a  day  of  pouring  out  of  thanks  and 
rejoicing;  for,  as  old  Tusser  observed? 

"  At  Christmas  be  merry,  and  thankful  withal, 
And  feast  thy  good  neighbors,  the  great  with  the  small." 


194  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

light  into  the  small  antique  lattices.     As  we  passed  this 
sheltered  nest,  the  parson  issued  forth  and  preceded  us. 

I  had  expected  to  see  a  sleek,  well-conditioned  pastor, 
such  as  is  often  found  in  a  snug  living  in  the  vicinity  of  a 
rich  patron's  table,  but  I  was  disappointed.  The  parson 
was  a  little  meagre,  black-looking  man,  with  a  grizzled  wig 
that  was  too  wide,  and  stood  off  from  each  ear;  so  that  his 
head  seemed  to  have  shrunk  away  within  it,  like  a  dried 
filbert  in  its  shell.  He  wore  a  rusty  coat,  with  great  skirts, 
and  pockets  that  would  have  held  the  church  bible  and 
prayer-book,  and  his  small  legs  seemed  still  smaller,  from 
being  planted  in  large  shoes,  decorated  with  enormous 
buckles. 

I  was  informed  by  Frank  Bracebridge  that  the  parson  had 
been  a  chum  of  his  father's  at  Oxford,  and  had  received 
this  living  shortly  after  the  latter  had  come  to  his  estate. 
He  was  a  complete  black-letter  hunter,  and  would  scarcely 
read  a  work  printed  in  the  Roman  character.  The  editions 
of  Caxton  and  Wynkin  de  Worde  were  his  delight;  and  he 
was  indefatigable  in  his  researches  after  such  old  English 
writers  as  have  fallen  into  oblivion  from  their  worthlessness. 
In  deference,  perhaps,  to  the  notions  of  Mr.  Bracebridge, 
he  had  made  diligent  investigations  into  the  festive  rites  and 
holiday  customs  of  former  times;  and  had  been  as  zealous 
in  the  inquiry  as  if  he  had  been  a  boon  companion;  but  it 
was  merely  with  that  plodding  spirit  with  which  men  of 
adust  temperament  follow  up  any  track  of  study,  merely 
because  it  is  denominated  learning;  indifferent  to  its  in 
trinsic  nature,  whether  it  be  the  illustration  of  the  wisdom, 
or  of  the  ribaldry  and  obscenity  of  antiquity.  He  had 
pored  over  these  old  volumes  so  intensely,  that  they  seemed 
to  have  been  reflected  into  his  countenance;  which,  if  the 
face  be  indeed  an  index  of  the  mind,  might  be  compared 
to  a  title-page  of  black-letter. 

On  reaching  the  church-porch,  we  found  the  parson  re 
buking  the  gray-headed  sexton  for  having  used  mistletoe 
among  the  greens  with  which  the  church  was  decorated. 
It  was,  he  observed,  an  unholy  plant,  profane  by  having 
been  used  by  the  Druids  in  their  mystic  ceremonies;  and 
though  it  might  be  innocently  employed  in  the  festive 
ornamenting  of  halls  and  kitchens,  yet  it  had  been  deemec 
by  the  Fathers  of  the  Church  as  unhallowed,  and  totallj 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  195 

unfit  for  sacred  purposes.  So  tenacious  was  he  on  this 
point,  that  the  poor  sexton  was  obliged  to  strip  down  a 
great  part  of  the  humble  trophies  of  his  taste,  before  the 
parson  would  consent  to  enter  upon  the  service  of  the  day. 

The  interior  of  the  church  was  venerable,  but  simple;  on 
the  walls  were  several  mural  monuments  of  the  Brace- 
bridges,  and  just  beside  the  altar  was  a  tomb  of  ancient 
workmanship,  on  which  lay  the  effigy  of  a  warrior  in  armor, 
with  his  legs  crossed,  a  sign  of  his  having  been  a  crusader. 
I  was  told  it  was  one  of  the  family  who  had  signalized 
himself  in  the  Holy  Land,  and  the  same  whose  picture 
hung  over  the  fire-place  in  the  hall. 

During  service,  Master  Simon  stood  up  in  the  pew,  and 
repeated  the  responses  very  audibly;  evincing  that  kind  of 
ceremonious  devotion  punctually  observed  by  a  gentleman 
of  the  old  school,  and  a  man  of  old  family  connections.  I 
observed,  too,  that  he  turned  over  the  leaves  of  a  folio 
prayer-book  with  something  of  a  flourish,  possibly  to  show 
off  an  enormous  seal-ring  which  enriched  one  of  his  fingers, 
and  which  had  the  look  of  a  family  relic.  But  he  was  evi 
dently  most  solicitous  about  the  musical  part  of  the  service, 
keeping  his  eye  fixed  intently  on  the  choir,  and  beating 
time  with  much  gesticulation  and  emphasis. 

The  orchestra  was  in  a  small  gallery,  and  presented  a 
most  whimsical  grouping  of  heads,  piled  one  above  the 
other,  among  which  I  particularly  noticed  that  of  the  vil 
lage  tailor,  a  pale  fellow  with  a  retreating  forehead  and 
chin,  who  played  on  the  clarionet,  and  seemed  to  have 
blown  his  face  to  a  point;  and  there  was  another,  a  short 
pursy  man,  stooping  and  laboring  at  a  bass  viol,  so  as  to 
show  nothing  but  the  top  of  a  round  bald  head,  like  the 
egg  of  an  ostrich.  There  were  two  or  three  pretty  faces 
among  the  female  singers,  to  which  the  keen  air  of  a  frosty 
morning  had  given  a  bright  rosy  tint:  but  the  gentlemen 
choristers  had  evidently  been  chosen,  like  old  Cremona  fid 
dles,  more  for  tone  than  looks;  and  as  several  had  to  sing 
from  the  same  book,  there  were  clusterings  of  odd  physiog 
nomies,  not  unlike  those  groups  of  cherubs  we  sometimes 
see  on  country  tombstones. 

The  usual  services  of  the  choir  were  managed  lolerably 
well,  the  vocal  parts  generally  lagging  a  little  behind  the 
instrumental,  and  some  loitering  fiddler  now  and  then 


196  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

making  up  for  lost  time  by  travelling  over  a  passage 
with  prodigious  celerity,  and  clearing  more  bars  than 
the  keenest  fox-hunter,  to  be  in  at  the  death.  But  the 
great  trial  was  an  anthem  that  had  been  prepared  and 
arranged  by  Master  Simon,  and  on  which  he  had  founded 
great  expectation.  Unluckily  there  was  a  blunder  at 
the  very  outset — the  musicians  became  flurried;  Master 
Simon  was  in  a  fever;  everything  went  on  lamely  and  ir 
regularly,  until  they  came  to  a  chorus  beginning,  "  Now 
let  us  sing  with  one  accord,"  which  seemed  to  be  a  signal 
for  parting  company:  all  became  discord  and  confusion; 
each  shifted  for  himself,  and  got  to  the  end  as  well,  or, 
rather,  as  soon  as  he  could;  excepting  one  old  chorister, 
in  a  pair  of  horn  spectacles,  bestriding  and  pinching  a  long 
sonorous  nose;  who,  happening  to  stand  a  little  apart,  and 
being  wrapped  up  in  his  own  melody,  kept  on  a  quavering 
course,  wriggling  his  head,  ogling  his  book,  and  winding 
all  up  by  a  nasal  solo  of  at  least  three  bars'  duration. 

The  parson  gave  us  a  most  erudite  sermon  on  the  rites 
and  ceremonies  of  Christmas,  and  the  propriety  of  observ 
ing  it,  not  merely  as  a  day  of  thanksgiving,  but  of  re 
joicing;  supporting  the  correctness  of  his  opinions  by  the 
earliest  usages  of  the  church,  and  enforcing  them  by  the 
authorities  of  Theophilus  of  Cesarea,  St.  Cyprian,  St.  Chrys- 
ostom,  St.  Augustine,  and  a  cloud  more  of  Saints  and 
Fathers,  from  whom  he  made  copious  quotations.  I  was  a 
little  at  a  loss  to  perceive  the  necessity  of  such  a  mighty  ar 
ray  of  forces  to  maintain  a  point  which  no  one  present 
seemed  inclined  to  dispute;  but  I  soon  found  that  the  good 
man  had  a  legion  of  ideal  adversaries  to  contend  with;  hav 
ing,  in  the  course  of  his  researches  on  the  subject  of  Christ 
mas,  got  completely  embroiled  in  the  sectarian  controver 
sies  of  the  Revolution,  when  the  Puritans  made  such  a 
fierce  assault  upon  the  ceremonies  of  the  church,  and  poor 
old  Christmas  was  driven  out  of  the  land  by  proclamation 
of  Parliament.*  The  worthy  parson  lived  but  with  times 
past,  and  knew  but  little  of  the  present. 

*From  the  "Flying  Eagle,"  a  small  Gazette,  published  December  24th, 
1653 — "The  House  spent  much  time  this  day  about  the  business  of  the  Navy, 
for  settling  the  affairs  at  sea,  and  before  they  rose,  were  presented  with  a  ter 
rible  remonstrance  against  Christmas  day,  grounded  upon  divine  Scriptures,  2 
Cor.  v.  16;  1  Cor.  xv.  14.  17;  and  in  honour  of  the  Lord's  Day,  grounded  upon 
these  Scriptures,  John  xx.  1;  Rev.  i.  10;  Psalms  cxviii.  24;  Lev.  xx.  iii.  7,  11; 
Mark  xv.  8;  Psalms,  Ixxxiv.  10;  in  which  Christmas  is  called  Anti-Christ's  masse, 


CHRISTMAS  DA  T.  197 

Shut  up  among  worm-eaten  tomes  in  the  retirement  of 
his  antiquated  little  study,  the  pages  of  old  times  were  to 
him  as  the  gazettes  of  the  day;  while  the  era  of  the  Revo 
lution  was  mere  modern  history.  He  forgot  that  nearly 
two  centuries  had  elapsed  since  the  fiery  persecution  of 
poor  mince-pie  throughout  the  land;  when  plum  porridge 
was  denounced  as  "mere  popery/'  and  roast  beef  as  anti- 
christian;  and  that  Christmas  had  been  brought  in  again 
triumphantly  with  the  merry  court  of  King  Charles  at  the 
Restoration.  He  kindled  into  warmth  with  the  ardor  of 
his  contest,  and  the  host  of  imaginary  foes  with  whom  he 
had  to  combat;  he  had  a  stubborn  conflict  with  old  Prynne 
and  two  or  three  other  forgotten  champions  of  the  Round 
Heads,  on  the  subject  of  Christmas  festivity;  and  con 
cluded  by  urging  his  hearers,  in  the  most  solemn  and  affect 
ing  manner,  to  stand  to  the  traditional  customs  of  their 
fathers,  and  feast  and  make  merry  on  this  joyful  anniver 
sary  of  the  church. 

I  have  seldom  known  a  sermon  attended  apparently  with 
more  immediate  effects;  for  on  leaving  the  church,  the  con 
gregation  seemed  one  and  all  possessed  with  the  gayety  of 
spirit  so  earnestly  enjoined  by  their  pastor.  The  elder  folks 
gathered  in  knots  in  the  churchyard,  greeting  and  shaking 
hands;  and  the  children  ran  about  crying,  "Ule!  Ule!" 
and  repeating  some  uncouth  rhymes,*  which  the  parson, 
who  had  joined  us,  informed  me,  had  been  handed  down 
from  days  of  yore.  The  villagers  doffed  their  hats  to  the 
'Squire  as  he  passed,  giving  him  the  good  wishes  of  the 
season  with  every  appearance  of  heartfelt  sincerity,  and 
were  invited  by  him  to  the  hall,  to  take  something  to  keep 
out  the  cold  of  the  weather;  and  I  heard  blessings  uttered 
by  several  of  the  poor,  which  convinced  me  that,  in  the 
midst  of  his  enjoyments,  the  worthy  old  cavalier  had  not 
forgotten  the  true  Christmas  virtue  of  charity. 

On  our  way  homeward,  his  heart  seemed  overflowing 
with  generous  and  happy  feelings.  As  we  passed  over  a 

and  those  Masse-mongers  and  Papists  who  observe  it,  &c.  In  consequence  of 
which  Parliament  spent  some  time  in  consultation  about  the  abolition  of 
Christmas  day,  passed  orders  to  that  effect,  and  resolved  to  sit  on  the  follow- 
I  Ing  day  which  w-as  commonly  called  Christinas  day." 

*"Ule!    UK-! 

Three  puddings  in  a  pule; 
Crack  nuts  and  cry  ule!" 


198  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

rising  ground  which  commanded  something  of  a  prospect, 
the  sounds  of  rustic  merriment  now  and  then  reached  our 
ears;  the  'Squire  paused  for  a  few  moments,  and  looked 
around  with  an  air  of  inexpressible  benignity.  The  beauty 
of  the  day  was,  of  itself,  sufficient  to  inspire  philanthropy. 
Notwithstanding  the  frostiness  of  the  morning,  the  sun  in 
his  cloudless  journey  had  acquired  sufficient  power  to  melt 
away  the  thin  covering  of  snow  from  every  southern  decliv 
ity,  and  to  bring  out  the  living  green  which  adorns  an 
English  landscape  even  in  mid- winter.  Large  tracts  of 
smiling  verdure,  contrasted  with  the  dazzling  whiteness  of 
the  shaded  slopes  and  hollows.  Every  sheltered  bank,  on 
which  the  broad  rays  rested,  yielded  its  silver  rill  of  cold 
and  limpid  water,  glittering  through  the  dripping  grass; 
and  sent  up  slight  exhalations  to  contribute  to  the  thin 
haze  that  hung  just  above  the  surface  of  the  earth.  There 
was  something  truly  cheering  in  this  triumph  of  warmth 
and  verdure  over  the  frosty  thraldom  of  winter;  it  was,  as 
the  'Squire  observed,  an  emblem  of  Christmas  hospitality, 
breaking  through  the  chills  of  ceremony  and  selfishness, 
and  thawing  every  heart  into  a  flow.  He  pointed  Avith 
pleasure  to  the  indications  of  good  cheer  reeking  from  the 
chimneys  of  the  comfortable  farm-houses,  and  low  thatched 
cottages.  "I  love,"  said  he,  "to  see  this  day  well  kept  by 
rich  and  poor;  it  is  a  great  thing  to  have  one  day  in  the 
year,  at  least,  when  you  are  sure  of  being  welcome  wherever 
you  go,  and  of  having,  as  it  were,  the  world  all  thrown  open 
to  you;  and  I  am  almost  disposed  to  join  with  poor  Robin, 
in  his  malediction  on  every  churlish  enemy  to  this  honesi 
festival: 

' ' '  Those  who  at  Christmas  do  repine, 

And  would  fain  hence  despatch  him, 
May  they  with  old  duke  Humphry  dine, 
Or  else  may  'Squire  Ketch  catch  him.'" 

The  'Squire  went  on  to  lament  the  deplorable  decay 
the  games  and  amusements  which  were  once  prevalent  a' 
this  season  among  the  lower  orders,  and  countenanced  bi 
the  higher;  when  the  old  halls  of  castles  and  manor-house: 
were  thrown  open  at  daylight;  when  the  tables  wen 
covered  with  brawn,  and  beef,  and  humming  ale;  when  tin 
harp  and  the  carol  resounded  all  day  long,  and  when  rici 


CHRISTMAS  DA  Y.  199 

and  poor  were  alike  welcome  to  enter  and  make  merry.* 
"  Our  old  games  and  local  customs/'  said  he,  "had  a  great 
effect  in  making  the  peasant  fond  of  his  home,  and  the 
promotion  of  them  by  the  gentry  made  him  fond  of  his 
lord.  They  made  the  times  merrier,  and  kinder,  and  bet 
ter,  and  I  can  truly  say  with  one  of  our  old  poets, 

"  '  I  like  them  well — the  curious  preciseness 
And  all-pretended  gravity  ofthose 
That  seek  to  banish  hence  these  harmless  sports, 
Have  thrust  away  much  ancient  honesty.' 

"The  nation,"  continued  he,  "is  altered;  Ave  have 
almost  lost  our  simple  true-hearted  peasantry.  They  have 
broken  asunder  from  the  higher  classes,  and  seem  to  think 
their  interests  are  separate.  They  have  become  too  know 
ing,  and  begin  to  read  newspapers,  listen  to  alehouse  poli 
ticians,  and  talk  of  reform.  I  think  one  mode  to  keep 
them  in  good  humor  in  these  hard  times,  would  be  for  the 
nobility  and  gentry  to  pass  more  time  on  their  estates, 
mingle,  more  among  the  country  people,  and  set  the  merry 
old  English  games  going  again." 

Such  was  the  good  'Squire's  project  for  mitigating  public 
discontent;  and,  indeed,  he  had  once  attempted  to  put  his 
doctrine  in  practice,  and  a  few  years  before  had  kept  open 
house  during  the  holidays  in  the  old  style.  The  country 
people,  however,  did  not  understand  how  to  play  their 
parts  in  the  scene  of  hospitality;  many  uncouth  circum 
stances  occurred;  the  manor  was  overrun  by  all  the  vagrants 
of  the  country,  and  more  beggars  drawn  into  the  neighbor 
hood  in  one  week  than  the  parish  officers  could  get  rid  of 
in  a  year.  Since  then,  he  had  contented  himself  with  in 
viting  the  decent  part  of  the  neighboring  peasantry  to  call 
at  the  Hall  on  Christmas  day,  and  with  distributing  beef, 
and  bread,  and  ale,  among  the  poor,  that  they  might  make 
merry  in  their  own  dwellings. 

We  had  not  been  long  home  when  the  sound  of  music 
was  heard  from  a  distance.  A  band  of  country  lads,  with- 

*  "  An  English  gentleman  at  the  opening  of  the  great  day,  i.  e.  on  Christmas 
day  in  the  morning,  had  all  his  tenants  and  neigh  bora  enter  his  hall  by  day 
break.  The  strong  beer  was  broached,  and  the  black  jacks  went  plentifully 
about  with  toast,  sugar  and  nutmeg,  and  good  Cheshire  cheese.  The  Hackiu 
(the  great  sausage)  must  be  boiled  by  day-break,  or  else  two  young  men  must 
take  the  maiden  (i.e.  the  cook)  by  the  anus  and  run  her  round  the  market  place 
till_she  is  shamed  of  her  laziness."— Round  about  our  Sea- Coal  Fire. 


200  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

out  coats,  had  their  sleeves  fancifully  tied  with  ribbons, 
their  hats  decorated  with  greens,  and  clubs  in  their  hands, 
were  seen  advancing  up  the  avenue,  followed  by  a  large 
number  of  villagers  and  peasantry.  They  stopped  before 
the  hall  door,  where  the  music  struck  up  a  peculiar  air, 
and  the  lads  performed  a  curious  and  intricate  dance,  ad 
vancing,  retreating,  and  striking  their  clubs  together, 
keeping  exact  time  to  the  music;  while  one,  whimsically 
crowned  with  a  fox's  skin,  the  tail  of  which  flaunted  down 
his  back,  kept  capering  round  the  skirts  of  the  dance,  and 
rattling  a  Christmas  box  with  many  antic  gesticulations. 

The  'Squire  eyed  this  fanciful  exhibition  with  great  in 
terest  and  delight,  and  gave  me  a  full  account  of  its  origin, 
which  he  traced  to  the  times  when  the  Romans  held  pos 
session  of  the  island;  plainly  proving  that  this  was  a  lineal 
descendant  of  the  sword-dance  of  the  ancients.  "  It  was 
now,"  he  said,  "  nearly  extinct,  but  he  had  accidentally 
met  with  traces  of  it  in  the  neighborhood,  and  had  encour 
aged  its  revival;  though,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  was  too  apt  to 
be  followed  up  by  rough  cudgel-play,  and  broken  heads,  in 
the  evening/' 

After  the  dance  was  concluded,  the  whole  party  was  en 
tertained  with  brawn  and  beef,  and  stout  home-brewed 
The  'Squire  himself  mingled  among  the  rustics,  and  wa 
received  with  awkward  demonstrations  of  deference  am 
regard.  It  is  true,  I  perceived  two  or  three  of  the  younger 
peasants,  as  they  were  raising  their  tankards  to  their  mouths 
when  the  'Squire's  back  was  turned,  making  something  o 
a  grimace,  and  giving  each  other  the  wink;  but  the  mo 
merit  they  caught  my  eye  they  pulled  grave  faces,  and  were 
exceedingly  demure.  With  Master  Simon,  however,  they  al 
seemed  more  at  their  ease.  His  varied  occupations  an( 
amusements  had  made  him  well  known  throughout  tht 
neighborhood.  He  was  visitor  at  every  farm-house  anc 
cottage  ;  gossiped  with  the  farmers  and  their  wives;  rompec 
with  their  daughters;  and,  like  that  type  of  a  vagrani 
bachelor  the  humble-bee,  tolled  the  sweets  from  all  tin 
rosy  lips  of  the  country  round. 

The  bashfulness  of  the  guests  soon  gave  way  before  goof 
cheer  and  affability.  There  is  something  genuine  anc 
affectionate  in  the  gayety  of  the  lower  orders,  when  it  i 
excited  by  the  bounty  and  familiarity  of  those  above  them 


CHRISTMAS  DA  T.  201 

;he  warm  glow  of  gratitude  enters  into  their  mirth,  and  a 
find  word  or  a  small  pleasantry,  frankly  uttered  by  a 
>atron,  gladdens  the  heart  of  the  dependant  more  than  oil 
md  wine.  When  the  'Squire  had  retired,  the  merriment 
ncreased,  and  there  was  more  joking  and  laughter,  partic 
ularly  between  Master  Simon  and  a  hale,  ruddy-faced, 
vhite-headed  farmer,  who  appeared  to  be  the  wit  of  the  vil- 
age;  for  I  observed  all  his  companions  to  wait  with  open 
mouths  for  his  retorts,  and'  burst  into  a  gratuitous  laugh 
>efore  they  could  well  understand  them. 

The  whole  house,  indeed',  seemed  abandoned  to  merri 
ment;  as  I  passed  to  my  room  to  dress  for  dinner,  I  heard 
he  sound  of  music  in  a  small  court,  and  looking  through 
a  window  that  commanded  it,  I  perceived  a  band  of  wan- 
lering  musicians,  with  pandean  pipes,  and  tambourine;  a 
>retty  coquettish  housemaid  was  dancing  a  jig  with  a  smart 
jountry  lad,  while  several  of  the  other  servants  were  look- 
ng  on.     In  the  midst  of  her  sport,  the  girl  caught  a  glimpse 
>f  my  face  at  the  window,  and  coloring  up,  ran  off  with  an 
lir  of  roguish  affected  confusion. 


202  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER. 

Lo,  now  is  come  our  joyful'st  feastl 

Let  every  man  be  jolly, 
Each  roome  with  y  vie  leaves  is  drest, 
And  every  post  with  holly. 

Now  all  our  neighbours'  chimneys  smoke, 
And  Christmas  blocks  are  burning; 

Their  ovens  they  with  bak't  meats  choke, 
And  all  their  spits  are  turning. 
Without  the  door  let  sorrow  lie, 
And  if,  for  cold,  it  hap  to  die, 
Wee  '1  bury  't  in  a  Christmas  pye, 
And  evermore  be  merry. 

WITHERS,  Juvenilia. 

I  HAD  finished  my  toilet,  and  was  loitering  with  Frank 
Bracebridge  in  the  library,  when  we  heard  a  distant  thwack 
ing  sound,  which  he  informed  me  was  a  signal  for  the 
serving  up  of  the  dinner.  The  'Squire  kept  up  old  cus 
toms  in  kitchen  as  well  as  hall;  and  the  rolling-pin  struck 
upon  the  dresser  by  the  cook,  summoned  the  servants  to 
carry  in  the  meats. 

Just  in  this  nick  the  cook  knock'd  thrice, 
And  all  the  waiters  in  a  trice, 

His  summons  did  obey; 
Each  serving  man,  with  dish  in  hand, 
Marched  boldly  up,  like  our  train  band, 

Presented,  and  away.* 

The  dinner  was  served  up  in  the  great  hall,  where  the 
'Squire  always  held  his  Christmas  banquet.  A  blazing 
crackling  fire  of  logs  had  been  heaped  on  to  warm  the 
spacious  apartment,  and  the  flame  went  sparkling  and 
wreathing  up  the  wide-mouthed  chimney.  The  great 
picture  of  the  crusader  and  his  white  horse  had  been  pro 
fusely  decorated  with  greens  for  the  occasion;  and  holly 
and  ivy  had  likewise  been  wreathed  round  the  helmet  and 
weapons  on  the  opposite  wall,  which  I  understood  were  the 

*  Sir  John  Suckling. 


T8E  CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  203 

arms  of  the  same  warrior.  I  must  own,  by  the  bye,  I  had 
strong  doubts  about  the  authenticity  of  the  painting  and 
armor  as  having  belonged  to  the  crusader,  they  certainly 
having  the  stamp  of  more  recent  days;  but  I  was  told  that 
the  painting  had  been  so  considered  time  out  of  mind;  and 
that,  as  to  the  armor,  it  had  been  found  in  a  lumber-room, 
and  elevated  to  its  present  situation  by  the  'Squire,  who  at 
once  determined  it  to  be  the  armor  of  the  family  hero;  and 
as  he  was  absolute  authority  on  all  such  subjects  in  his  own 
household,  the  matter  had  passed  into  current  acceptation. 
A  sideboard  was  set  out  just  under  this  chivalric  trophy,  on 
which  was  a  display  of  plate  that  might  have  vied  (at  least 
in  variety)  with  Belshazzar's  parade  of  the  vessels  of  the 
temple;  ''flagons,  cans,  cups,  beakers,  goblets,  basins,  and 
ewers;"  the  gorgeous  utensils  of  good  companionship  that 
had  gradually  accumulated  through  many  generations  of 
jovial  housekeepers.  Before  these  stood  the  two  yule  can 
dles,  beaming  like  two  stars  of  the  first  magnitude;  other 
lights  were  distributed  in  branches,  and  the  whole  array 
glittered  like  a  firmament  of  silver. 

We  were  ushered  into  this  banqueting  scene  with  the 
sound  of  minstrelsy;  the  old  harper  being  seated  on  a  stool 
beside  the  fire-place,  and  twanging  his  instrument  with  a 
vast  deal  more  power  than  melody.  Never  did  Christmas 
board  display  a  more  goodly  and  gracious  assemblage  of 
countenances;  those  who  were  not  handsome,  were,  at  least, 
happy;  and  happiness  is  a  rare  improver  of  your  hard- 
favored  visage.  I  always  consider  an  old  English  family  as 
well  worth  studying  as  a  collection  of  Holbein's  portraits, 
or  Albert  Durer's  prints.  There  is  much  antiquarian  lore 
to  be  acquired;  much  knowledge  of  the  physiognomies  of 
former  times.  Perhaps  it  may  be  from  having  continually 
before  their  eyes  those  rows  of  old  family  portraits,  with 
which  the  mansions  of  this  country  are  stocked;  certain  it 
is,  that  the  quaint  features  of  antiquity  are  often  most 
faithfully  perpetuated  in  these  ancient  lines;  and  I  have 
traced  an  old  family  nose  through  a  whole  picture-gallery, 
legitimately  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation, 
almost  from  the  time  of  the  Conquest.  Something  of  the 
kind  was  to  be  observed  in  the  worthy  company  around  me. 
Many  of  their  faces  hud  evidently  originated  in  a  Gothic 
Age,  and  been  merely  copied  by  succeeding  generations;  and 


204  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

there  was  one  little  girl,  in  particular,  of  staid  demeanor, 
with  a  high  Roman  nose,  and  an  antique  vinegar  aspect, 
who  was  a  great  favorite  of  the  'Squire's,  being,  as  he  said, 
a  Bracebridge  all  over,  and  the  very  counterpart  of  one  of 
his  ancestors  who  figured  in  the  Court  of  Henry  VIII. 

The  parson  said  grace,  which  was  not  a  short  familiar 
one,  such  as  is  commonly  addressed  to  the  Deity  in  these 
unceremonious  days;  but  a  long,  courtly,  well-worded  one 
of  the  ancient  school.  There  was  now  a  pause,  as  if  some 
thing  was  expected;  when  suddenly  the  butler  entered  the 
hall  with  some  degree  of  bustle;  he  was  attended  by  a  ser 
vant  on  each  side  with  a  large  wax-light,  and  bore  a  silver 
dish,  on  which  was  an  enormous  pig's  head,  decorated  with 
rosemary,  with  a  lemon  in  its  mouth,  which  was  placed 
with  great  formality  at  the  head  of  the  table.  The  mo 
ment  this  pageant  made  its  appearance,  the  harper  struck 
up  a  flourish;  at  the  conclusion  of  which  the  young  Oxon 
ian,  on  receiving  a  hint  from  the  'Squire,  gave,  with  an  air 
of  the  most  comic  gravity,  an  old  carol,  the  first  verse  of 
which  was  as  follows: 

Caput  apri  defero 

Reddens  laudes  Domino. 
The  boar's  head  in  hand  bring  I, 
With  garlands  gay  and  rosemary. 
I  pray  you  all  synge  merily 

Qui  estis  in  convivio. 

Though  prepared  to  witness  many  of  these  little  eccen 
tricities,  from  being  apprised  of  the  peculiar  hobby  of  mine 
host,  yet,  I  confess,  the  parade  with  which  so  odd  a  dish 
was  introduced  somewhat  perplexed  me,  until  I  gathered, 
from  the  conversation  of  the  'Squire  and  the  parson,  that  it 
was  meant  to  represent  the  bringing  in  of  the  boar's  head 
— a  dish  formerly  served  up  with  much  ceremony,  and  the 
sound  of  minstrelsy  and  song,  at  great  tables  on  Christmas 
day.  "I  like  the  old  custom,"  said  the  'Squire,  "not 
merely  because  it  is  stately  and  pleasing  in  itself,  but  because 
it  was  observed  at  the  college  at  Oxford,  at  which  I  was 
educated.  When  I  hear  the  old  song  chanted,  it  brings  to 
mind  the  time  when  I  was  young  and  gamesone — and  the 
noble  old  college  hall — and  my  fellow-students  loitering 
about  in  their  black  gowns;  many  of  whom,  poor  lads,  are 
now  in  their  graves!" 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  205 

The  parson,  however,  whose  mind  was  not  haunted  by 
such  associations,  and  who  was  always  more  taken  up  with 
the  text  than  the  sentiment,  objected  to  the  Oxonian's  ver 
sion  of  the  carol,  which  he  affirmed  was  different  from  that 
sung  at  college.  He  went  on,  with  the  dry  perseverance  of 
a  commentator,  to  give  the  college  reading,  accompanied 
by  sundry  annotations;  addressing  himself  at  first  to  the 
company  at  large;  but  finding  their  attention  gradually  di 
verted  to  other  talk,  and  other  objects,  he  lowered  his  tone 
as  his  number  of  auditors  diminished,  until  he  concluded 
his  remarks  in  an  under  voice,  to  a  fat-headed  old  gentle 
man  next  him,  who  was  silently  engaged  in  the  discussion 
of  a  huge  plateful  of  turkey.* 

The  table  was  literally  loaded  with  good  cheer,  and  pre 
sented  an  epitome  of  country  abundance,  in  this  season  of 
overflowing  larders.  A  distinguished  post  was  allotted  to 
"  ancient  sirloin,"  as  mine  host  termed  it;  being,  as  he 
added,  "the  standard  of  old  English  hospitality,  and  a 
joint  of  goodly  presence,  and  full  of  expectation."  There 
were  several  dishes  quaintly  decorated,  and  which  had  evi 
dently  something  traditional  in  their  embellishments;  but 
about  which,  as  I  did  not  like  to  appear  over-curious,  I 
asked  no  questions. 

I  could  not,  however,  but  notice  a  pie,  magnificently 
decorated  with  peacocks'  feathers,  in  imitation  of  the  tail 
of  that  bird,  which  overshadowed  a  considerable  tract  of 
the  table.  This,  the  'Squire  confessed,  with  some  little 

*The  old  ceremony  of  serving  up  the  boar's  head  on  Christmas  day  is  still 
observed  in  the  hall  of  Queen's  College,  Oxford.  I  was  favored  by  the  parson 
with  a  copy  of  the  carol  as  now  sung,  and  as  it  may  be  acceptable  to  such  of 
my  readers  as  are  curious  in  these  grave  and  learned  matters,  I  give  it  entire : 

The  boar's  head  in  hand  bear  I, 
Bedeck'd  with  bays  and  rosemary; 
And  I  pray  you,  my  masters,  be  merry, 
Quot  estis  in  convivio. 

Caput  apri  defero. 

Reddens  laudes  Domino. 

The  boar's  head,  as  I  understand, 
Is  the  rarest  dish  in  all  this  land, 
Which  thus  bedeck'd  with  a  gay  garland, 
Let  us  servire  cantico. 
Caput  apri  defero,  &c. 

Our  steward  hath  provided  this 
In  honor  of  the  King  of  Bliss, 
Which  on  this  day  to  be  served  is 
In  Reginensi  Atrio. 
Caput  apri  defero, 
&c.,  &c.,  &c. 


206  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

hesitation,  was  a  pheasant  pie,  though  a  peacock  pie  was 
certainly  the  most  authentical;  but  there  had  been  such  a 
mortality  among  the  peacocks  this  season,  that  he  could 
not  prevail  upon  himself  to  have  one  killed.* 

It  would  be  tedious,  perhaps,  to  my  wiser  readers,  who 
may  not  have  that  foolish  fondness  for  odd  and  obsolete 
things  to  which  I  am  a  little  given,  were  I  to  mention  the 
other  make-shifts  of  this  worthy  old  humorist,  by  which 
he  was  endeavoring  to  follow  up,  though  at  an  humble  dis 
tance,  the  quaint  customs  of  antiquity.  I  was  pleased, 
however,  to  see  the  respect  shown  to  his  whims  by  his  chil 
dren  and  relatives;  who,  indeed,  entered  readily  into  the 
full  spirit  of  them,  and  seemed  all  well  versed  in  their 
parts;  having  doubtless  been  present  at  many  a  rehearsal. 
I  was  amused,  too,  at  the  air  of  profound  gravity  with 
which  the  butler  and  other  servants  executed  the  duties  as 
signed  them,  however  eccentric.  They  had  an  old-fashioned 
look;  having,  for  the  most  part,  been  brought  up  in  the 
household,  and  grown  into  keeping  with  the  antiquated 
mansion,  and  the  humors  of  its  lord;  and  most  probably 
looked  upon  all  his  whimsical  regulations  as  the  established 
laws  of  honorable  housekeeping. 

When  the  cloth  was  removed,  the  butler  brought  in  a 
huge  silver  vessel,  of  rare  and  curious  workmanship,  which 
he  placed  before  the  'Squire.  Its  appearance  was  hailed 
with  acclamation;  being  the  Wassail  Bowl,  so  renowned  in 
Christmas  festivity.  The  contents  had  been  prepared  by 
the  'Squire  himself;  for  it  was  a  beverage,  in  the  skillful 
mixture  of  which  he  particularly  prided  himself,  alleging, 
that  it  was  too  abstruse  and  complex  for  the  comprehen 
sion  of  an  ordinary  servant.  It  was  a  potation,  indeed, 
that  might  well  make  the  heart  of  a  toper  leap  within  him; 

*  The  peacock  wsas  anciently  in  great  demand  for  stately  entertainments. 
Sometimes  it  was  made  into  a  pie,  at  one  end  of  which  the  head  appeared 
above  the  crust  in  all  its  plumage,  with  the  beak  richly  gilt;  a  tthe  other  end 
the  tail  was  displayed.  Such  pies  were  served  up  at  the  solemn  banquets  of 
chivalry,  when  Knights-errant  pledged  themselves  to  undertake  any  perilous 
enterprise,  whence  came  the  ancient  oath,  used  by  Justice  Shallow,  "  by  cock 
and  pie." 

The  peacock  was  also  an  important  dish  for  the  Christmas  feast;  and  Mas- 
singer,  in  his  City  Madam,  gives  some  idea  of  the  extravagance  with  which 
this,  as  well  as  other  dishes,  was  prepared  for  the  gorgeous  revels  of  the  olden 
times: 

Men  may  talk  of  Country  Chrlstmases. 

Their  thirty  pound  butter'd  eggs,  their  pies  of  carps'  tongues: 

Their  pheasants  drench'd  with  ambergris:  the  carcases  of  three  fat  wethers 
bruised  for  gravy  to  make  sauce  for  <i  single  peacock.' 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  207 

being  composed  of  the  richest  and  raciest  wines,  highly 
spiced  and  sweetened,  with  roasted  apples  bobbing  about 
the  surface.* 

The  old  gentleman's  whole  countenance  beamed  with  a 
serene  look  of  indwelling  delight,  as  he  stirred  this  mighty 
bowl.  Having  raised  it  to  his  lips,  with  a  hearty  wish  of 
a  merry  Christmas  to  all  present,  he  sent  it  brimming 
round  the  board,  for  every  one  to  follow  his  example  accord 
ing  to  the  primitive  style;  pronouncing  it  "the  ancient 
fountain  of  good  feeling,  where  all  hearts  met  together."  f 

There  was  much  laughing  and  rallying,  as  the  honest 
emblem  of  Christmas  joviality  circulated,  and  was  kissed 
rather  coyly  by  the  ladies.  But  when  it  reached  Master 
Simon,  he  raised  it  in  both  hands,  and  with  the  air  of  a 
boon  companion,  struck  up  an  old  Wassail  Chanson: 

The  brown  bowle, 

The  merry  brown  bowle, 

As  it  goes  round  about-a, 

Fill 

Still, 

Let  the  world  say  what  it  will, 
And  drink  your  fill  all  out-a. 

The  deep  canne, 

The  merry  deep  canne, 

As  thou  dost  freely  quaff-a, 

Sing 

Fling, 

Be  as  merry  as  a  king, 
And  sound  a  lusty  laugh-a.J 

*  The  Wassail  Bowl  was  sometimes  composed  of  ale  instead  of  wine;  with 
nutmeg,  sugar,  toast,  ginger,  and  roasted  crabs;  in  this  way  the  nut-brown 
beverage  is  still  prepared  in  some  old  families,  and  round  the  hearth  of  sub 
stantial  farmers  at  Christmas.  It  is  also  called  Lamb's  Wool,  and  it  is  cele 
brated  by  Herrick  in  his  Twelfth  Night: 

Next  crowne  the  howle  full 

With  gentle  Lamb's  Wool, 
Add  sugar,  nutmeg,  and  ginger. 

With  store  of  ale  too, 

And  thus  ye  must  doe 
To  make  the  Wassaile  a  swinger. 

t  "  The  custom  of  drinking  out  of  the  same  cup  gave  place  to  each  having 
his  cup.  When  the  steward  came  to  the  doore  with  the  Wassel,  he  was  to  cry 
three  times,  Wassel,  Wassel,  Wassel,  and  then  |the  ohappell  (chaplain)  was  ta 
answer  with  a  song."— Archceologia. 

t  Prom  Poor  Robin's  Almanack, 


208  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Much  of  the  conversation  during  dinner  turned  upon 
family  topics,  to  which  I  was  a  stranger.  There  was,  how 
ever,  a  great  deal  of  rallying  of  Master  Simon  about  some 
gay  widow,  with  whom  he  was  accused  of  having  a  flirta 
tion.  This  attack  was  commenced  by  the  ladies;  but  it 
was  continued  throughout  the  dinner  by  the  fat-headed  old 
gentleman  next  the  parson,  with  the  persevering  assiduity 
of  a  slow  hound;  being  one  of  these  long-winded  jokers, 
who,  though  rather  dull  at  starting  game,  are  unrivalled 
for  their  talents  in  hunting  it  down.  At  every  pause  in  the 
general  conversation,  he  renewed  his  bantering  in  pretty 
much  the  same  terms;  winking  hard  at  me  with  both  eyes, 
whenever  he  gave  Master  Simon  what  he  considered  a 
home  thrust.  The  latter,  indeed,  seemed  fond  of  being 
teased  on  the  subject,  as  old  bachelors  are  apt  to  be;  and 
he  took  occasion  to  inform  me,  in  an  undertone,  that  the 
lady  in  question  was  a  prodigiously  fine  woman,  and  drove 
her  own  curricle.  - 

The  dinner-time  passed  away  in  this  flow  of  innocent 
hilarity,  and  though  the  old  hall  may  have  resounded  in  its 
time  with  many  a  scene  of  broader  rout  and  revel,  yet  I 
doubt  whether  it  ever  witnessed  more  honest  and  genuine 
enjoyment.  How  easy  it  is  for  one  benevolent  being  to 
diffuse  pleasure  around  him;  and  how  truly  is  a  kind 
heart  a  fountain  of  gladness,  making  everything  in  its 
vicinity  to  freshen  into  smiles!  The  joyous  disposition  of 
the  worthy  'Squire  was  perfectly  contagious;  he  was  happy 
himself,  and  disposed  to  make  all  the  world  happy;  and 
the  little  eccentricities  of  his  humor  did  but  season,  in  a 
manner,  the  sweetness  of  his  philanthropy. 

When  the  ladies  had  retired,  the  conversation,  as  usual, 
became  still  more  animated:  many  good  things  were 
broached  which  had  been  thought  of  during  dinner,  but 
which  would  not  exactly  do  for  a  lady's  ear;  and  though  I 
cannot  positively  affirm  that  there  was  much  wit  uttered, 
yet  I  have  certainly  heard  many  contests  of  rare  wit  pro 
duce  much  less  laughter.  Wit,  after  all,  is  a  mighty  tart, 
pungent  ingredient,  and  much  too  acid  for  some  stomachs; 
but  honest  good-humor  is  the  oil  and  wine  of  a  merry 
meeting,  and  there  is  no  jovial  companionship  equal  to 
that,  where  the  jokes  are  rather  small,  and  the  laughter 
abundant. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  209 

The  'Squire  told  several  long  stories  of  early  college 
pranks  and  adventures,  in  some  of  which  the  parson  had 
been  a  sharer;  though  in  looking  at  the  latter,  it  required 
some  effort  of  imagination  to  figure  such  a  little  dark  anat 
omy  of  a  man  into  the  perpetrator  of  a  madcap  gambol. 
Indeed,  the  two  college  chums  presented  pictures  of  what 
men  may  be  made  by  their  different  lots  in  life;  the  'Squire 
had  left  the  university  to  live  lustily  on  his  paternal  do 
mains,  in  the  vigorous  enjoyment  of  prosperity  and  sun 
shine,  and  had  flourished  on  to  a  hearty  and  florid  old  age; 
whilst  the  poor  parson,  on  the  contrary,  had  dried  and 
withered  away,  among  dusty  tomes,  in  the  silence  and 
shadows  of  his  study.  Still  there  seemed  to  be  a  spark 
of  almost  extinguished  fire  feebly  glimmering  in  the  bottom 
of  his  soul;  and,  as  the  'Squire  hinted  at  a  sly  story  of  the 
parson  and  a  pretty  milkmaid  whom  they  once  met  on  the 
banks  of  the  Isis,  the  old  gentleman  made  an  "alphabet  of 
faces,"  which,  as  far  as  I  could  decipher  his  physiognomy, 
I  verily  believe  was  indicative  of  laughter; — indeed,  I  have 
rarely  met  with  an  old  gentleman  that  took  absolute  offence 
at  the  imputed  gallantries  of  his  youth. 

I  found  the  tide  of  wine  and  wassail  fast  gaining  on  the 
dry  land  of  sober  judgment.  The  company  grew  merrier 
and  louder,  as  their  jokes  grew  duller.  Master  Simon  was 
in  as  chipper  a  humor  as  a  grasshopper  filled  with  dew;  his 
old  songs  grew  of  a  warmer  complexion,  and  he  began  to 
talk  maudlin  about  the  widow.  He  even  gave  a  long  song 
about  the  wooing  of  a  widow,  which  he  informed  me  he 
had  gathered  from  an  excellent  black-letter  work  entitled 
"  Cupid's  Solicitor  for  Love; "  containing  a  store  of  good  ad 
vice  for  bachelors,  and  which  he  promised  to  lend  me;  the 
first  verse  was  to  this  effect: 

He  that  will  woo  a  widow  must  not  dally, 
He  must  make  bay  while  the  sun  doth  shine. 

He  must  not  stand  with  her,  shall  I,  shall  I, 
But  boldly  say,  Widow,  tbou  must  be  mine. 

This  song  inspired  the  fat-headed  old  gentleman,  who 
made  several  attempts  to  tell  a  rather  broad  story  of  Joe 
Miller,  that  was  pat  to  the  purpose;  but  he  always  stuck  in 
the  middle,  everybody  recollecting  the  latter  part  excepting 
himself.  The  parson,  too,  began  to  show  the  effects  of 


210  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

good  cheer,  having  gradually  settled  down  into  a  doze,  and 
his  wig  sitting  most  suspiciously  on  one  side.  Just  at  this 
juncture,  we  were  summoned  to  the  drawing-room,  and  I 
suspect,  at  the  private  instigation  of  mine  host,  whose  jovi 
ality  seemed  always  tempered  with  a  proper  love  of  de 
corum. 

After  the  dinner-table  was  removed,  the  hall  was  given 
up  to  the  younger  members  of  the  family,  who,  prompted 
to  all  kind  of  noisy  mirth  by  the  Oxonian  and  Master 
Simon,  made  its  old  walls  ring  with  their  merriment,  as 
they  played  at  romping  games.  I  delight  in  witnessing  the 
gambols  of  children,  and  particularly  at  this  happy  holiday 
season,  and  could  not  help  stealing  out  of  the  drawing- 
room  on  hearing  one  of  their  peals  of  laughter.  I  found 
them  at  the  game  of  blind-man's-buff.  Master  Simon,  who 
was  the  leader  of  their  revels,  and  seemed  on  all  occasions 
to  fulfill  the  office  of  that  ancient  potentate,  the  Lord  of 
Misrule,*  was  blinded  in  the  midst  of  the  hall.  The  little 
beings  were  as  busy  about  him  as  the  mock  fairies  about 
Falstaff ;  pinching  him,  plucking  at  the  skirts  of  his  coat, 
and  tickling  him  with  straws.  One  fine  blue-eyed  girl  of 
about  thirteen,  with  her  flaxen  hair  all  in  beautiful  con 
fusion,  her  frolic  face  in  a  glow,  her  frock  half  torn  off  her 
shoulders,  a  complete  picture  of  a  romp,  was  the  chief  tor 
mentor;  and  from  the  slyness  with  which  Master  Simon 
avoided  the  smaller  game,  and  hemmed  this  wild  little 
nymph  in  corners,  and  obliged  her  to  jump  shrieking  over 
chairs,  I  suspected  the  rogue  of  being  not  a  whit  more 
blinded  than  was  convenient. 

When  I  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  I  found  the  com 
pany  seated  round  the  fire,  listening  to  the  parson,  who 
was  deeply  ensconced  in  a  high-backed  open  chair,  the  work 
of  some  cunning  artificer  of  yore,  which  had  been  brought 
from  the  library  for  his  particular  accommodation.  From 
this  venerable  piece  of  furniture,  with  which  his  shadowy 
figure  and  dark  weazen  face  so  admirably  accorded,  he  was 
dealing  forth  strange  accounts  of  the  popular  superstitions 
and  legends  of  the  surrounding  country,  with  which  he  had 
become  acquainted  in  the  course  of  his  antiquarian  re- 

*  At  Christmas  there  was  in  the  Kinges  house,  wheresoever  hee  was  lodged, 
a  lorde  of  misrule,  or  mayster  of  merie  disportes,  and  the  like  had  ye  in  the 
house  of  every  nobleman  of  honor;  or  good  worshippe,  were  he  spirituall  or 
temporall.— STOW. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINlfEH.  211 

searches.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  old  gentleman 
was  himself  somewhat  tinctured  with  superstition,  as  men 
are  very  apt  to  be,  who  live  a  recluse  and  studious  life  in  a 
sequestered  part  of  the  country,  and  pore  over  black-letter 
tracts,  so  often  filled  with  the  marvellous  and  supernatural. 
He  gave  us  several  anecdotes  of  the  fancies  of  the  neighbor 
ing  peasantry,  concerning  the  effigy  of  the  crusader,  which 
lay  on  the  tomb  by  the  church  altar.  As  it  was  the  only 
monument  of  the  kind  in  that  part  of  the  country,  it  had 
always  been  regarded  with  feelings  of  superstition  by  the 
good  wives  of  the  village.  It  was  said  to  get  up  from  the 
tomb  and  walk  the  rounds  of  the  churchyard  in  stormy 
nights,  particularly  when  it  thundered;  and  one  old  woman, 
whose  cottage  bordered  on  the  churchyard,  had  seen  it 
through  the  windows  of  the  church,  when  the  moon  shone, 
slowly  pacing  up  and  down  the  aisles.  It  was  the  belief 
that  some  wrong  had  been  left  unredressed  by  the  deceased, 
or  some  treasure  hidden,  which  kept  the  spirit  in  a  state 
of  trouble  and  restlessness.  Some  talked  of  gold  and  jew 
els  buried  in  the  tomb,  over  which  the  spectre  kept  watch; 
and  there  was  a  story  current  of  a  sexton,  in  old  times,  who 
endeavored  to  break  his  way  to  the  coffin  at  night;  but  just 
as  he  reached  it  received  a  violent  blow  from  the  marble 
hand  of  the  effigy,  which  stretched  him  senseless  on  the 
pavement.  These  tales  were  often  laughed  at  by  some  of 
the  sturdier  among  the  rustics;  yet,  when  night  came  on, 
there  were  many  of  the  stoutest  unbelievers  that  were  shy 
of  venturing  alone  in  the  footpath  that  led  across  the 
churchyard. 

From  these  and  other  anecdotes  that  followed,  the  cru 
sader  appeared  to  be  the  favorite  hero  of  ghost  stories 
throughout  the  vicinity.  His  picture,  which  hung  up  in 
the  hall,  was  thought  by  the  servants  to  have  something 
supernatural  about  it:  for  they  remarked  that,  in  whatever 
part  of  the  hall  you  went,  the  eyes  of  the  warrior  were  still 
fixed  on  you.  The  old  porter's  wife,  too,  at  the  lodge,  who 
had  been  born  and  brought  up  in  the  family,  and  was  a 
great  gossip  among  the  maid-servants,  affirmed,  that  in  her 
young  days  she  had  often  heard  say,  that  on  Midsummer 
eve,  when  it  was  well  known  all  kinds  of  ghosts,  goblins, 
and  fairies,  become  visible  and  walk  abroad,  the  crusader 
used  to  mount  his  horse,  come  down  from  his  picture,  ride 


212  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

about  the  house,  down  the  avenue,  and  so  to  the  church  to 
visit  the  tomb;  on  which  occasion  the  church  door  most 
civilly  swung  open  of  itself;  not  that  he  needed  it — for  he 
rode  through  closed  gates  and  even  stone  walls,  and  had 
been  seen  by  one  of  the  dairy-maids  to  pass  between  two 
bars  of  the  great  park  gate,  making  himself  as  thin  as  a 
sheet  of  paper. 

All  these  superstitions  I  found  had  been  very  much 
countenanced  by  the  'Squire,  who,  though  not  superstitious 
himself,  was  very  fond  of  seeing  others  so.  He  listened  to 
every  goblin  tale  of  the  neighboring  gossips  with  infinite 
gravity,  and  held  the  porter's  wife  in  high  favor  on  account 
of  her  talent  for, the  marvellous.  He  was  himself  a  great 
reader  of  old  legends  and  romances,  and  often  lamented 
that  he  could  not  believe  in  them;  for  a  superstitious  per 
son,  he  thought,  must  live  in  a  kind  of  fairy  land. 

Whilst  we  were  all  attention  to  the  parson's  stories,  our 
ears  were  suddenly  assailed  by  a  burst  of  heterogeneous 
sounds  from  the  hall,  in  which  were  mingled  something  like 
the  clang  of  rude  minstrelsy,  with  the  uproar  of  many 
small  voices  and  girlish  laughter.  The  door  suddenly  flew 
open,  and  a  train  came  trooping  into  the  room,  that  might 
almost  have  been  mistaken  for  the  breaking  up  of  the 
court  of  Fairy.  That  indefatigable  spirit,  Master  Simon, 
in  the  faithful  discharge  of  his  duties  as  lord  of  misrule, 
had  conceived  the  idea  of  a  Christmas  mummery,  or  mask 
ing;  and  having  called  in  to  his  assistance  the  Oxonian  and 
the  young  officer,  who  were  equally  ripe  for  anything  that 
should  occasion  romping  and  merriment,  they  had  carried 
it  into  instant  effect.  The  old  housekeeper  had  been  con 
sulted;  the  antique  clothes-presses  and  wardrobes  rum 
maged,  and  made  to  yield  up  the  relics  of  finery  that  had 
not  seen  the  light  for  several  &enerations;  the  younger  part', 
of  the  company  had  been  privately  convened  from  parlor 
and  hall,  and  the  whole  had  been  bedizened  out,  into  ;i 
burlesque  imitation  of  an  antique  masque.* 

Master  Simon  led  the  van  as  "Ancient  Christmas,"' 
quaintly  apparelled  in  a  ruff,  a  short  cloak,  which  had  very/ 
much  the  aspect  of  one  of  the  old  housekeeper's  petticoats, 

*Maskinsrs  or  mummeries  were  favorite  sports  at  Christmas,  in  old  times, 
and  the  wardrobes  at  halls  and  manor-houses  were  often  laid  under  contribu 
tion  to  furnish  dresses  and  fantastic  dis^uisin^.s.     I  strongly  suspect  Master^ 
Simon  to  have  taken  the  idea  of  his  from  Ben  Jonson's  Mask  of  Christmas. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  213 

and  a  hat  that  might  have  served  for  a  village  steeple  and 
must  indubitably  have  figured  in  the  days  of  the  Covenant 
ers.  From  under  this,  his  nose  curved  boldly  forth,  flushed 
with  a  frost-bitten  bloom  that  seemed  the  very  trophy  of  a 
December  blast.  He  was  accompanied  by  the  blue-eyed 
romp,  dished  up  as  "  Dame  Mince  Pie/'  in  the  venerable 
magnificence  of  faded  brocade,  long  stomacher,  peaked  hat 
and  high-heeled  shoes. 

The  young  officer  appeared  as  Robin  Hood,  in  a  sport 
ing  dress  of  Kendal  green,  and  a  foraging  cap  with  a  gold 
tassel. 

The  costume,  to  be  sure,  did  not  bear  testimony  to  deep 
research,  and  there  was  an  evident  eye  to  the  picturesque 
natural  to  a  young  gallant  in  presence  of  his  mistress.  The 
fair  Julia  hung  on  his  arm  in  a  pretty  rustic  dress,  as 
"  Maid  Marian."  The  rest  of  the  train  had  been  metamor 
phosed  in  various  ways;  the  girls  trussed  up  in  the  finery  of 
the  ancient  belles  of  the  Brace  bridge  line,  and  the  strip 
lings  bewhiskered  with  burnt  cork,  and  gravely  clad  in 
broad  skirts,  hanging  sleeves,  and  full-bottomed  wigs,  to 
represent  the  characters  of  Roast  Beef,  Plum  Pudding,  and 
other  worthies  celebrated  in  ancient  maskings.  The  whole 
was  under  the  control  of  the  Oxonian,  in  the  appropriate 
character  of  Misrule;  and  I  observed  that  he  exercised 
rather  a  mischievous  sway  with  his  wand  over  the  smaller 
personages  of  the  pageant. 

The  irruption  of  this  motley  crew,  with  beat  of  drum,  ac 
cording  to  ancient  custom,  was  the  consummation  of  uproar 
and  merriment.  Master  Simon  covered  himself  with  glory 
by  the  stateliness  with  which,  as  Ancient  Christmas,  he 
walked  a  minuet  with  the  peerless,  though  giggling,  Dame 
Mince  Pie.  It  was  followed  by  a  dance  from  all  the  char 
acters,  which,  from  its  medley  of  costumes,  seemed  as 
though  the  old  family  portraits  had  skipped  down  from 
their  frames  to  join  in  the  sport.  Different  centuries  were 
figuring  at  cross-hands  and  right  and  left;  the  dark  ages 
were  cutting  pirouettes  and  rigadoons;  and  the  days  of 
Queen  Bess,  jigging  merrily  down  the  middle,  through  a 
line  of  succeeding  generations. 

The  worthy  'Squire  contemplated  these  fantastic  sports, 
and  this  resurrection  of  his  old  wardrobe,  with  the  si m tile 
relish  of  childish  delight.  He  stood  chuckling  and  rubbing 


SKETCH-BOOK. 

his  hands,  and  scarcely  hearing  a  word  the  parson  said,  not 
withstanding  that  the  latter  was  discoursing  most  authen 
tically  on  the  ancient  and  stately  dance  of  the  Pavon,  or 
peacock,  from  which  he  conceived  the  minuet  to  be  de 
rived.*  For  my  part,  I  was  in  a  continual  excitement 
from  the  varied  scenes  of  whim  and  innocent  gayety  pass 
ing  before  me.  It  was  inspiring  to  see  wild-eyed  frolic 
and  warm-hearted  hospitality  breaking  out  from  among 
the  chills  and  glooms  of  winter,  and  old  age  throwing  off 
his  apathy,  and  catching  once  more  the  freshness  of  youth 
ful  enjoyment.  I  felt  also  an  interest  in  the  scene,  from 
the  consideration  that  these  fleeting  customs  were  posting 
fast  into  oblivion,  and  that  this  was,  perhaps,  the  only 
family  in  England  in  which  the  whole  of  them  were  still 
punctiliously  observed.  There  was  a  quaintness,  too, 
mingled  with  all  this  revelry,  that  gave  it  a  peculiar  zest: 
it  was  suited  to  the  time  and  place;  and  as  the  old  manor- 
house  almost  reeled  with  mirth  and  wassail,  it  seemed  echo 
ing  back  the  joviality  of  long- departed  years. 


But  enough  of  Christmas  and  its  gambols:  it  is  time  for 
me  to  pause  in  this  garrulity.  Methinks  I  hear  the  ques 
tion  asked  by  my  graver  readers,  "To  what  purpose  is  all 
this — how  is  the  world  to  be  made  wiser  by  this  talk?" 
Alas!  is  there  not  wisdom  enough  extant  for  the  instruction 
of  the  world?  And  if  not,  are  there  not  thousands  of  abler 
pens  laboring  for  its  improvement? — It  is  so  much  pleas- 
anter  to  please  than  to  instruct — to  play  the  companion 
rather  than  the  preceptor. 

What,  after  all,  is  the  mite  of  wisdom  that  I  could  throw 
into  the  mass  of  knowledge;  or  how  am  I  sure  that  my 
sagest  deductions  may  be  safe  guides  for  the  opinions  of 
others?  But  in  writing  to  amuse,  if  I  fail,  the  only  evil  is 
my  own  disappointment.  If,  however,  I  can  by  any  lucky 
chance,  in  these  days  of  evil,  rub  out  one  wrinkle  from  the 
brow  of  care,  or  beguile  the  heavy  heart  of  one  moment  of' 

*  Sir  John  Hawkins,  speaking  of  the  dance  called  the  Pavon,  from  pavo,  a 
peacock,  says:  "It  is  a  grave  and  nia.j.'stic  dance;  the  method  of  dancing  it 
anciently  was  by  gentlemen  dressed  with  caps  and  swords;  by  those  of  the 
long  robe  in  their  gowns;  by  the  peers  in  their  mantles,  and  by  the  ladies  in 
gowns  with  long  trains,  the  motion  whereof,  in  dancing,  resembled  that  of  a* 
peacock."— History  qf'  Music. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  215 

sorrow — if  I  can  now  and  then  penetrate  through  the 
gathering  film  of  misanthropy,  prompt  a  benevolent  view 
of  human  nature,  and  make  my  reader  more  in  good 
humor  with  his  fellow  beings  and  himself,  surely,  surely,  I 
shall  not  then  have  written  entirely  in  vain. 


216  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


LITTLE  BRITAIN. 

What  T  write  is  most  true.  *  *  *  *  I  have  a  whole  booke  of  cases 
lying  by  ine,  which  if  I  should  sette  foorth,  some  grave  auntients 
(within  the  hearing  of  Bow  bell)  would  be  out  of  charity  with  rue. — 
NASH. 

IN"  the  centre  of  the  great  City  of  London  lies  a  small 
neighborhood,  consisting  of  a  cluster  of  narrow  streets  and 
courts,  of  very  venerable  and  debilitated  houses,  which 
goes  by  the  name  of  LITTLE  BRITAIN.  Christ  Church 
school  and  St.  Bartholomew's  hospital  bound  it  on  the  west; 
Smithfield  and  Long  lane  on  the  north;  Aldersgate-street, 
like  an  arm  of  the  sea,  divides  it  from  the  eastern  part  of 
the  city;  whilst  the  yawning  gulf  of  Bull-and-Mouth-street 
separates  it  from  Butcher  lane,  and  the  regions  of  Newgate. 
Over  this  little  territory,  thus  bounded  and  designated,  the 
great  dome  of  St.  Paul's,  swelling  above  the  intervening 
nouses  of  Paternoster  Row,  Amen  Corner,  and  Ave-Maria 
lane,  looks  down  with  an  air  of  motherly  protection. 

This  quarter  derives  its  appellation  from  having  been,  in 
ancient  times,  the  residence  of  the  Dukes  of  Brittany.  As 
London  increased,  however,  rank  and  fashion  rolled  off  to 
the  west,  and  trade,  creeping  on  at  their  heels,  took  posses 
sion  of  their  deserted  abodes.  For  some  time,  Little 
Britain  became  the  great  mart  of  learning,  and  was  peopled 
by  the  busy  and  prolific  race  of  booksellers:  these  also 
gradually  deserted  it,  and  emigrating  beyond  the  great 
strait  of  Newgate-street,  settled  down  in  Paternoster  Row 
and  St.  Paul's  Church-yard;  where  they  continue  to  in 
crease  and  multiply,  even  at  the  present  day. 

But  though  thus  fallen  into  decline,  Little  Britain  still 
bears  traces  of  its  former  splendor.  There  are  several 
houses,  ready  to  tumble  down,  the  fronts  of  which  are  mag 
nificently  enriched  with  old  oaken  carvings  of  hideous 
faces,  unknown  birds,  beasts,  and  fishes;  and  fruits  and 
flowers,  which  it  would  perplex  a  naturalist  to  classify. 


LITTL  E  BRITAIN.  217 

There  are  also,  in  Aldersgate-street,  certain  remains  of 
what  were  once  spacious  and  lordly  family  mansions,  but 
which  have  in  latter  days  been  subdivided  into  several  tene 
ments.  Here  may  often  be  found  the  family  of  a  petty 
tradesman,  with  its  trumpery  furniture,  burrowing  among 
the  relics  of  antiquated  finery,  in  great  rambling  time- 
stained  apartments,  with  fretted  ceilings,  gilded  cornices, 
and  enormous  marble  fire-places.  The  lanes  and  courts 
also  contain  many  smaller  houses,  not  on  so  grand  a  scale; 
but,  like  your  small  ancient  gentry,  sturdily  maintaining 
their  claims  to  equal  antiquity.  These  have  their  gable- 
ends  to  the  street:  great  bow-windows,  with  diamond  panes 
set  in  lead;  grotesque  carvings;  and  low-arched  doorways.* 

In  this  most  venerable  and  sheltered  little  nest  have  I 
passed  several  quiet  years  of  existence,  comfortably  lodged 
in  the  second  floor  of  one  of  the  smallest,  but  oldest  edifices. 
My  sitting-room,  is  an  old  wainscoted  chamber,  with  small 
panels,  and  set  off  with  a  miscellaneous  array  of  furniture. 
I  have  a  particular  respect  for  three  or  four  high-backed, 
claw-footed  chairs,  covered  with  tarnished  brocade,  which 
bear  the  marks  of  having  seen  better  days,  and  have  doubt 
less  figured  in  some  of  the  old  palaces  of  Little  Britain. 
They  seem  to  me  to  keep  together,  and  to  look  down  with 
sovereign  contempt  upon  their  leathern-bottom  neighbors; 
as  I  have  seen  decayed  gentry  carry  a  high  head  among  the 
plebeian  society  with  which  they  were  reduced  to  associate. 
Tho  whole  front  of  my  sitting-room  is  taken  up  with  a  bow- 
window;  on  the  panes  of  which  are  recorded  the  names  of 
previous  occupants  for  many  generations;  mingled  with 
scraps  of  very  indifferent  gentleman-like  poetry,  written  in 
characters  which  I  can  scarcely  decipher;  and  which  extol 
the  charms  of  many  a  beauty  of  Little  Britain,  who  has 
long,  long  since  bloomed,  faded,  and  passed  away.  As  I 
am  an  idle  personage,  with  no  apparent  occupation,  and 
pay  my  bills  regularly  every  week,  I  am  looked  upon  as  the 
only  independent  gentleman  of  the  neighborhood;  and 
being  curious  to  learn  the  internal  state  of  a  community  so 
apparently  shut  up  within  itself,  I  have  managed  to  work 
my  way  into  all  the  concerns  and  secrets  of  the  place. 

Little  Britain  may  truly  be  called  the  heart's  core  of  the 

*  It  is  evident  that  the  author  of  this  interesting  communication  has  in 
cluded  in  his  general  title  of  Little  Britain,  many  of  those  little  lanes  and  courts 
that  belong  immediately  to  the  Cloth  Fair. 


218  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

city;  the  stronghold  of  true  John  Bullism.  It  is  a  frag 
ment  of  London  as  it  was  in  its  better  days,  with  its  anti 
quated  folks  and  fashions.  Here  flourish  in  great  preser 
vation  many  of  the  holiday  games  and  customs  of  yore. 
The  inhabitants  most  religiously  eat  pancakes  on  Shrove 
Tuesday;  hot-cross-buns  on  Good-Friday,  and  roast  goose 
at  Michaelmas;  they  send  love-letters  on  Valentine's  day; 
burn  the  Pope  on  the  Fifth  of  November,  and  kiss  all  the 
girls  under  the  mistletoe  at  Christmas.  Koast  beef  and 
plum-pudding  are  also  held  in  superstitious  veneration, 
and  port  and  sherry  maintain  their  grounds  as  the  only  true 
English  wines — all  others  being  considered  vile  outlandish 
beverages. 

Little  Britain  has  its  long  catalogue  of  city  wonders,  which 
its  inhabitants  consider  the  wonders  of  the  world:  such  as 
the  great  bell  of  St.  Paul's,  which  sours  all  the  beer  when 
it  tolls;  the  figures  that  strike  the  hours  at  St.  Dunstan's 
clock;  the  Monument;  the  lions  in  the  Tower;  and  the 
wooden  giants  in  Guildhall.  They  still  believe  in  dreams 
and  fortune-telling;  and  an  old  woman  that  lives  in  Bull- 
and-Mouth-street  makes  a  tolerable  subsistence  by  detecting 
stolen  goods,  and  promising  the  girls  good  husbands.  They 
are  apt  to  be  rendered  uncomfortable  by  comets  and  eclipses; 
and  if  a  dog  howls  dolefully  at  night,  it  is  looked  upon  as 
a  sure  sign  of  a  death  in  the  place.  There  are  even  many 
ghost  stories  current,  particularly  concerning  the  old  man 
sion-houses;  in  several  of  which  it  is  said  strange  sights  are 
sometimes  seen.  Lords  and  ladies,  the  former  in  full-bot 
tomed  wigs,  hanging  sleeves  and  swords,  the  latter  in  lap 
pets,  stays,  hoops,  and  brocade,  have  been  seen  walking  up 
and  down  the  great  waste  chambers,  on  moonlight  nights; 
and  are  supposed  to  be  the  shades  of  the  ancient  proprietors 
in  their  court-dresses. 

Little  Britain  has  likewise  its  sages  and  great  men.  One 
of  the  most  important  of  the  former  is  a  tall  dry  old  gentle 
man,  of  the  name  of  Skryme,  who  keeps  a  small  apothe 
cary's  shop.  He  has  a  cadaverous  countenance,  full  of 
cavities  and  projections;  with  a  brown  circle  round  each 
eye,  like  a  pair  of  horn  spectacles.  He  is  much  thought  of 
by  the  old  women,  who  consider  him  as  a  kind  of  conjuror, 
because  he  has  two  or  three  stuffed  alligators  hanging  up 
in  his  shop,  and  several  snakes  in  bottles.  He  is  a  great 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  219 

reader  of  almanacs  and  newspapers,  and  is  much  given  to 
pore  over  alarming  accounts  of  plots,  conspiracies,  fires, 
earthquakes,  and  volcanic  eruptions;  which  last  phenomena 
he  considers  ,-i-i  signs  of  the  times.  He  has  always  some 
dismal  tale  of  the  kind  to  deal  out  to  his  customers,  with 
their  dose;  and  thus  at  the  same  time  puu  both  body  and 
soul  into  an  uproar.  -  He  is  a  great  believer  in  omens  and 
predictions;  and  has  the  prophecies  of  Eobert  Nixon  and 
Mother  Shjpton  by  heart.  No  man  can  make  so  much  out 
of  an  eclipse,  or  even  an  unusually  dark  day;  and  he  shook 
the  tail  of  the  last  comet  over  the  heads  of  his  customers 
and  disciples,  until  they  were  nearly  frightened  out  of  their 
wits.  He  has  lately  got  hold  of  a  popular  legend  or  pro 
phecy,  on  which  he  has  been  unusually  eloquent.  There 
has  been  a  saying  current  among  the  ancient  Sybils,  who 
treasure  up  these  things,  that  when  the  grasshopper  on  the 
top  of  the  Exchange  shook  hands  with  the  dragon  on  the 
top  of  Bow  Church  steeple,  fearful  events  would  take  place. 
This  strange  conjunction,  it  seems,  has  as  strangely  corne 
to  pass.  The  same  architect  has  been  engaged  lately  on 
the  repairs  of  the  cupola  of  the  Exchange,  and  the  steeple 
of  Bow  Church;  and,  fearful  to  relate,  the  dragon  and  the 
grasshopper  actually  lie,  cheek  by  jowl,  in  the  yard  of  his 
workshop. 

"Others,"  as  Mr.  Skryme  is  accustomed  to  say,  "may 
go  star-gazing,  and  look  for  conjunctions  in  the  heavens, 
but  here  is  a  conjunction  on  the  earth,  near  at  home,  and 
under  our  own  eyes,  which  surpasses  all  the  signs  and  cal 
culations  of  astrologers."  Since  these  portentous  weather 
cocks  have  thus  laid  their  heads  together,  wonderful  events 
had  already  occurred.  The  good  old  king,  notwithstand 
ing  that  he  had  lived  eighty-two  years,  had  all  at  once 
given  up  the  ghost;  another  king  had  mounted  the  throne; 
a  royal  duke  had  died  suddenly — another,  in  France,  had 
been  murdered;  there  had  been  radical  meetings  in  all 
parts  of  the  kingdom;  the  bloody  scenes  at  Manchester. — 
the  great  plot  in  Cato-street; — and,  above  all,  the  Queen 
had  returned  to  England!  All  these  sinister  events  are  re 
counted  by  Mr.  Skryme  with  a  mysterious  look,  and  a  dis 
mal  shake  of  the  head;  and  being  taken  with  his  drugs, 
and  associated  in  the  minds  of  his  auditors  with  stuffed 
sea-monsters,  bottled  serpents,  and  his  own  visage,  which 


220  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

is  a  title-page  of  tribulation,  they  have  spread  great  gloou. 
through  the  minds  of  the  people  in  Little  Britain.  They 
shake  their  heads  whenever  they  go  by  Bow  Church,  and 
observe,  that  they  never  expected  any  good  to  come  of 
taking  down  that  steeple,  which,  in  old  times,  told  nothing 
but  glad  tidings,  as  the  history  of  Whittington  and  his  cat 
bears  witness. 

The  rival  oracle  of  Little  Britain  is  a  substantial  cheese 
monger,  who  lives  in  a  fragment  of  one  of  the  old  family 
mansions,  and  is  as  magnificently  lodged  as  a  round-bellied 
mite  in  the  midst  of  one  of  his  own  Cheshires.  Indeed, 
he  is  a  man  of  no  little  standing  and  importance;  and  his; 
renown  extends  through  Huggin  lane,  and  Lad  lane,  and 
even  unto  Aldermanbury.  His  opinion  is  very  much  taken 
in  the  affairs  of  state,  having  read  the  Sunday  papers  for 
the  last  half  century,  together  with  the  Gentleman's 
Magazine,  Rapin's  History  of  England,  and  the  Xaval 
Chronicle.  His  head  is  stored  with  invalurble  maxims, 
which  have  borne  the  test  of  time  and  use  for  centuries. 
It  is  his  firm  opinion  that  "it  is  a  moral  impossible,"  so 
long  as  England  is  true  to  herself,  that  anything  can  shake 
her:  and  he  has  much  to  say  on  the  subject  of  the  national 
debt;  which,  somehow  or  other,  he  proves  to  be  a  great 
national  bulwark  and  blessing.  He  passed  the  greater 
part  of  his  life  in  the  purlieus  of  Little  Britain,  until  of  late 
years,  when  having  become  rich,  and  grown  into  the 
dignity  of  a  Sunday  cane,  he  beg.ins  to  take  his  pleasure 
and  see  the  world.  He  has  therefore  made  several  excur 
sions  to  Hampstead,  Highgate,  and  other  neighboring 
towns,  where  he  has  passed  whole  afternoons  in  looking 
back  upon  the  metropolis  thro-ugh  a  telescope,  and  en 
deavoring  to  descry  the  steeple  of  St.  Bartholomew's.  Not 
a  stage-coachman  of  Bull-and-Mouth-street  but  touches  his 
hat  as  he  passes;  and  he  is  considered  quite  a  patron  at  the  •; 
coach-office  of  the  Goose  and  Gridiron,  St.  Paul's  Church-, 
yard.  His  family  have  been  very  urgent  for  him  to  make 
an  expedition  to  Margate,  but  he  has  great  doubts  of  these 
new  grimcracks  the  steamboats',  and  indeed  thinks  himself 
too  advanced  in  life  to  undertake  sea-voyages. 

Little  Britain  has  occasionally  its  factions  and  divisions, 
and  party  spirit  ran  very  high  at  one  time,  in  consequence 
of  two  rival  "  Burial  Societies"  being  set  up  in  the  place, 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  221 

One  held  its  meeting  at  the  Swan  and  Horse-Shoe,  and 
was  patronized  by  the  cheesemongers;  the  other  at  the 
Cock  and  Crown,  under  the  auspices  of  the  apothecary:  it 
is  needless  to  say,  that  the  latter  was  the  most  flourishing. 
I  have  passed  an  evening  or  two  at  each,  and  have  acquired 
much  valuable  information  as  to  the  best  mode  of  being 
buried;  the  comparative  merits  of  churchyards;  together 
with  divers  hints  on  the  subject  of  patent  iron  coffins.  I 
have  heard  the  question  discussed  in  all  its  bearings,  as  to 
the  legality  of  prohibiting  the  latter  on  account  of  their 
durability.  The  feuds  occasioned  by  these  societies  have 
happily  died  away  of  late;  but  they  were  for  a  long  time 
prevailing  themes  of  controversy,  the  people  of  Little 
Britain  being  extremely  solicitous  of  funeral  honors,  and 
of  lying  comfortably  in  their  graves. 

Besides  these  two  funeral  societies,  there  is  a  third  of 
quite  a  different  cast,  which  tends  to  throw  the  sunshine  of 
good-humor  over  the  whole  neighborhood.  It  meets  once 
a  week  at  a  little  old-fashioned  house,  kept  by  a  jolly  pub 
lican  of  the  name  of  Wagstaff,  and  bearing  for  insignia  a 
resplendent  ^alf-moon,  with  a  most  seductive  bunch  of 
grapes,  The  whole  edifice  is  covered  with  inscriptions  to 
catch  the  eye  of  the  thirsty  wayfarer;  such  as  "  Truman, 
Hanbury  &  Co.'s  Entire,"  "Wine,  Rum,  and  Brandy 
Vaults,"  "Old  Tom,  Rum,  and  Compounds,  &c."  This, 
indeed,  has  been  a  temple  of  Bacchus  and  Mom  us,  from 
time  immemorial.  It  has  always  been  in  the  family  of  the 
Wagstaffs,  so  that  its  history  is  tolerably  preserved  by  the 
present  landlord.  It  was  much  frequented  by  the  gallants 
and  cavalieros  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  and  was  looked 
into  now  and  then  by  the  wits  Charles  the  Second's  day. 
But  what  Wagstaff  principally  prides  himself  upon,  is,  that 
Henry  the  Eighth,  in  one  of  his  nocturnal  rambles,  broke 
the  head  of  one  of  his  ancestors  with  his  famous  walking- 
staff.  This,  however,  is  considered  as  rather  a  dubious 
and  vain-glorious  boast  of  the  landlord. 

The  club  which  now  holds  its  weekly  sessions  here,  goes 
by  the  name  of  "  the  Roaring  Lads  of  Little  Britain."  They 
abound  in  all  catches,  glees,  and  choice  stories,  that  are 
traditional  in  the  place,  and  not  to  be  met  with  in  any 
other  part  of  the  metropolis.  There  is  a  madcap  under 
taker,  who  is  inimitable  at  a  merry  song;  but  the  life  of  the 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


club,  and  indeed  the  prime  wit  of  Little  Britain,  is  bully 
Wagstaff  himself.  His  ancestors  were  all  wags  before  him, 
and  he  has  inherited  with  the  inn  a  large  stock  of  songs  and 
jokes,  which  go  with  it  from  generation  to  generation  as  i 
heir-looms.  He  is  a  dapper  little  fellow,  with  bandy  legs 
and  pot  belly,  a  red  face  with  a  moist  merry  eye,  and  a  little 
shock  of  gray  hair  behind.  At  the  opening  of  every  club 
night,  he  is  called  in  to  sing  his  "  Confession  of  Faith,"* 
which  is  the  famous  old  drinking  troll  from  Gammer 

*  As  mine  host  of  the  Half-Moon's  Confession  of  Faith  may  not  be*  familiar 
to  the  majority  of  readers,  and  as  it  is  a  specimen  of  the  current  songs  of  Little 
Britain,  I  subjoin  it  in  its  original  orthography.  I  would  observe,  that  the 
whole  club  always  join  in  the  chorus  with  a  fearful  thumping  on  the  table  and 
clattering  of  pewter-pots. 

I  cannot  eate  but  lytle  meate, 

My  stomacke  is  not  good, 
But  sure  I  thinke  that  I  can  drinke 

With  him  that  weares  a  hood. 
Though  I  go  bare  take  ye  no  care, 

I  nothing  am  a  colde, 
I  stuff  my  skyn  so  full  within, 

Of  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 

Chorus.    Back  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare, 

Both  foot  and  hand  go  colde, 
But  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  ynoughe, 
Whether  it  be  new  or  olde. 

I  have  no  rost,  but  a  nut  brown  toste 

And  a  crab  laid  -in  the  fyre; 
A  little  breade  shall  do  me  steade, 

Much  breade  I  not  desyre. 
No  frost,  nor  snow,  nor  winde  I  trowe, 

Can  hurt  me  if  I  wolde, 
I  am  so  wrapt  and  throwly  lapt 

Of  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 

Chorus.    Back  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  &o. 

And  Tyb  my  wife,  that,  as  her  lyfe, 

Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seeke, 
Full  oft  drynkes  she,  tyll  ye  may  see 

The  teares  run  down  her  cheeke. 
Then  doth  shee  trowle  to  me  the  bowle, 

Even  as  a  maulte-worme  sholde, 
And  sayth,  sweete  harte,  I  tooke  my  parte 

Of  this  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 

Chorus.    Back  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  &c. 

Now  let  them  drynke,  tyll  they  nod  and  winke, 

Even  as  goode  fellowes  sholde  doe. 
They  shall  not  mysse  to  have  the  blisse, 

Good  ale  doth  bring  men  to. 
And  all  poorsoules  that  have  scowred  bowles, 

Or  have  them  lustily  trolde, 
God  save  the  lyves  of  them  and  their  wives, 

Whether  they  be  yonge  or  olde. 

Chorus.    Back  and  syde  go  bate,  go  bare,  &c. 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  223 

Gurton's  needle.  He  sings  it,  to  be  sure,  with  many  varia 
tions,  as  he  received  it  from  his  father's  lips;  for  it  had 
been  a  standing  favorite  at  the  Half-Moon  and  Bunch  of 
Grapes  ever  since  it  was  written;  nay,  he  affirms  that  his 
predecessors  have  often  had  the  honor  of  singing  it  before 
the  nobility  and  gentry  at  Christmas  mummeries,  when 
Little  Britain  was  in  all  its  glory. 

It  would  do  one's  heart  good  to  hear  on  a  club-night  the 
shouts  of  merriment,  the  snatches  of  song,  and  now  and 
then  the  choral  bursts  of  half-a-dozen  discordant  voices, 
which  issue  from  this  jovial  mansion.  At  such  times  the 
street  is  lined  with  listeners,  who  enjoy  a  delight  equal  to 
that  of  gazing  into  a  confectioner's  window,  or  snuffing  up 
the  steams  of  a  cook-shop. 

There  are  two  annual  events  which  produce  great  stir 
and  sensation  in  Little  Britain;  these  are  St.  Bartholomew's 
Fair,  and  the  Lord  Mayor's  day.  During  the  time  of  the 
Fair,  which  is  held  in  the  adjoining  regions  of  Smithfield, 
there  is  nothing  going  on  but  gossiping  and  gadding  about. 
The  late  quiet  streets  of  Little  Britain  are  overrun  with  an 
irruption  of  strange  figures  and  faces; — every  tavern  is  a 
scene  of  rout  and  revel.  The  fiddle  and  the  song  are 
heard  from  the  tap-room,  morning,  noon,  and  night;  and 
at  each  window  may  be  seen  some  group  of  boon  com 
panions,  with  half-shut  eyes,  hats  on  one  side,  pipe  in 
mouth,  and  tankard  in  hand,  fondling  and  prozing,  and 
singing  maudlin  songs  over  their  liquor.  Even  the  sober 
decorum  of  private  families,  which  I  must  say  is  rigidly 
kept  up  at  other  times  among  my  neighbors,  is  no  proof 
against  this  Saturnalia.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  keeping 
maid  servants  within  doors.  Their  brains  are  absolutely 
set  madding  with  Punch  and  the  Puppet  Show;  the  Flying 
Horses;  Signior  Polito;  the  Fire-Eater;  the  celebrated  Mr. 
Paap,  and  the  Irish  Giant.  The  children,  too,  lavish  all 
their  holiday  money  in  toys  and  gilt  gingerbread,  and  fill 
the  house  with  the  Liliputian  din  of  drums,  trumpets,  and 
penny  whistles. 

But  the  Lord  Mayor's  day  is  the  great  anniversary.  The 
Lord  Mayor  is  looked  up  to  by  the  inhabitants  of  Little 
Britain  as  the  greatest  potentate  upon  earth;  his  gilt  coach, 
with  six  horses,  as  the  summit  of  human  splendor;  and  his 
procession,  with  all  the  Sheriffs  and  Aldermen  in  his  train, 


224  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

as  the  grandest  of  earthly  pageants.  How  they  exult  in 
the  idea  that  the  King  himself 'dare  not  enter  the  city 
without  first  knocking  at  the  gate  of  Temple  Bar,  and  ask 
ing  permission  of  the  Lord  Mayor;  for  if  he  did,  heaven 
and  earth!  there  is  no  knowing  what  might  be  the  conse 
quence.  The  man  in  armor  who  rides  before  the  Lord 
Mayor,  and  is  the  city  champion,  has  orders  to  cut  down 
everybody  that  offends  against  the  dignity  of  the  city;  and 
then  there  is  the  little  man  with  a  velvet  porringer  on  his 
head,  who  sits  at  the  window  of  the  state  coach  and  holds 
the  city  sword,  as  long  as  a  pike-staff — Od's  blood!  if  he 
once  draws  that  sword,  Majesty  itself  is  not  safe! 

Under  the  protection  of  this  mighty  potentate,  therefore, 
the  good  people  of  Little  Britain  sleep  in  peace.  Temple 
Bar  is  an  effectual  barrier  against  all  internal  foes;  and  as 
to  foreign  invasion,  the  Lord  Mayor  has  but  to  throw  him 
self  into  the  Tower,  call  in  the  train-bands,  and  put  the 
standing  army  of  Beef-eaters  under  arms,  and  he  may  bid 
defiance  to  the  world! 

Thus  wrapped  up  in  its  own  concerns,  its  own  habits, 
and  its  own  opinions,  Little  Britain  has  long  flourished  as. 
a  sound  heart  to  this  great  fungus  metropolis.     I  have] 
pleased  myself  with  considering  it  as  a  chosen  spot,  where ; 
the  principles  of  sturdy  John  Bullism  were  garnered  up, 
like  seed-corn,  to  renew  the  national  character,  when  it 
had  run  to  waste  and  degeneracy.     I  have  rejoiced  also  in! 
the  general  spirit  of  harmony  that  prevailed  throughout  it; 
for  though  there  might  now  and  then  be  a  few  clashes  of 
opinion  between  the  adherents  of  the  cheesemonger  and 
the  apothecary,  and  an  occasional  feud  between  the  burial' 
societies,  yet  these   were  but   transient   clouds,  and  soonj 
passed  away.     The  neighbors  met  with  good-will,  parted 
with  a  shake  of  the  hand,  and  never  abused  each  other  ex 
cept  behind  their  backs. 

I  could  give  rare  descriptions  of  snug  junketing  parties 
at  which  I  have  been  present;  where  we  played  at  All- 
Fours,  Pope- Joan,  Tom-come-tiekle-me,  and  other  choice 
old  games:  and  where  we  sometimes  had  a  good  old  English 
country  dance,  to  the  tune  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverly.  Once 
a  year  also  the  neighbors  would  gather  together,  and  go  on 
a  gypsy  party  to  Epping  Forest.  It  would  have  done  any 
man's  heart  good  to  see  the  merriment  that  took  place 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  225 

nere,  as  we  banqueted  on  the  grass  under  the  trees.  How 
we  made  the  woods  ring  with  bursts  of  laughter  at  the 
songs  of  little  Wagstaff  and  the  merry  undertaker!  After 
dinner,  too,  the  young  folks  would  play  at  blind man's-buff 
and  hide-and-seek;  and  it  was  amusing  to  see  them  tangled 
among  the  briers,  and  to  hear  a  fine  romping  girl  now  and 
then  squeak  from  among  the  bushes.  The  elder  folks 
would  gather  round  the  cheesemonger  and  the  apothecary, 
to  hear  them  talk  politics;  for  they  generally  brought  out 
a  newspaper  in  their  pockets,  to  pass  away  time  in  the 
country.  They  would  now  and  then,  to  be  sure,  get  a  lit 
tle  warm  in  argument;  but  their  disputes  were  always  ad 
justed  by  reference  to  a  worthy  old  umbrella-maker  in  a 
double  chin;  who,  never  exactly  comprehending  the  sub 
ject,  managed,  somehow  or  other,  to  decide  in  favor  of 
both  parties. 

All  empires,  however,  says  some  philosopher  or  historian, 
are  doomed  to  changes  and  revolutions.  Luxury  and  in 
novation  creep  in;  factions  arise;  and  families  now  and 
then  spring  up,  whose  ambition  and  intrigues  throw  the 
whole  system  into  confusion.  Thus  in  latter  days  has  the 
tranquillity  of  Little  Britain  been  grievously  disturbed, 
and  its  golden  simplicity  of  manners  threatened  with  total 
subversion,  by  the  aspiring  family  of  a  retired  butcher. 

The  family  of  the  Lambs  had  long  been  among  the  most 
thriving  and  popular  in  the  neighborhood;  the  Miss  Lambs 
were  the  belles  of  Little  Britain,  and  everybody  was  pleased 
when  old  Lamb  had  made  money  enough  to  shut  up  shop, 
and  put  his  name  on  a  brass  plate  on  his  door.  In  an  evil 
hour,  however,  one  of  the  Miss  Lambs  had  the  honor  of  be 
ing  a  lady  in  attendance  on  the  Lady  Mayoress,  at  her 
grand  annual  ball,  on  which  occasion  she  wore  three  tower 
ing  ostrich  feathers  on  her  head.  The  family  never  got 
over  it;  they  were  immediately  smitten  with  a  passion  for 
high  life;  set  up  a  one-horse  carriage,  put  a  bit  of  gold  lace 
around  the  errand-boy's  hat,  and  have  been  the  talk  and 
detestation  of  the  whole  neighborhood  ever  since.  They 
could  no  longer  be  induced  to  play  at  Pope-Joan  or  blind- 
man's-buff:  they  could  endure  no  dances  but  quadrilles, 
which  nobody  ever  hear  of  in  Little  Britain;  and  they  took 
to  reading  noveX  talked  bad  French,  and  played  upon  the 
piano.  Their  brother,  too,  who  iiad  been  articled  to  an  at- 


226  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

torney,  set  up  for  a  dandy  and  a  critic,  characters  hitherto 
unknown  in  these  parts;  and  he  confounded  the  worthy 
folks  exceedingly  by  talking  about  Kean,  the  Opera,  and 
the  Edinbro'  Review. 

What  was  still  worse,  the  Lambs  gave  a  grand  ball,  to 
which  they  neglected  to  invite  any  of  their  old  neighbors; 
but  they  had  a  great  deal  of  genteel  company  from  Theo 
bald's  Road,  Red-lion  Square,  and  other  parts  toward  the 
west.  There  were  several  beaux  of  their  brother's  acquaint 
ance  from  Gray's-Inn  lane  and  Hatton  Garden;  and  not  less 
than  three  Aldermen's  ladies  with  their  daughters.  This 
was  not  to  be  forgotten  or  forgiven.  All  Little  Britain  was 
in  an  uproar  with  the  smacking  of  whips,  the  lashing  of  i 
miserable  horses,  and  the  rattling  and  jingling  of  hackney- 
coaches.  The  gossips  of  the  neighborhood  might  be  seen 
popping  their  night-caps  out  at  every  window,  watching 
the  crazy  vehicles  rumble  by;  and  there  was  a  knot  of  viru-i 
lent  old  cronies,  that  kept  a  lookout  from  a  house  just  op-( 
posite  the  retired  butcher's,  flucl  scanned  and  criticized 
everyone  that  knocked  at  the  door. 

The  dance  was  a  cause  of  almost  open  war,   and   the 
whole   neighborhood   declared   they   would   have   nothing 
more  to  say  to  the  Lambs.     It  is  true  that  Mrs.   Lamb, 
when  she  had  no  engagements' with  her  quality  acquaint- i 
ance,  would  give  little  humdrum  tea  junketings  to  some  of 3 
her  old  cronies,  "quite,"  as  she  would  say,  "in  a  friendly 
way;"  and  it  is  equally  true  than  her  invitations  were  al-'j 
ways  accepted^  in  spite  of  all  previous  vows  to  the  contrary,  j 
Nay,  the  good  ladies  would  sit  and  be  delighted  with  thai 
music  of  the  Miss  Lambs,  who  would  condescend  to  thrum] 
an  Irish  melody  for  them  on  the  piano;  and   they  wouldl 
listen  with  wonderful  interest  to  Mrs.  Lamb's  anecdotes  ofl 
Alderman  Plunket's  family  of  Portsoken ward,  and  the  Misss 
Timberlakes,  the  rich  heiresses  of  Crutched-Friars;  but  theni 
they  relieved  their  consciences,  and  averted  the  reproaches] 
of  their  confederates,  by  canvassing  at  the  next  gossiping 
convocation  everything  that  had   passed,  and  pulling  the.. 
Lambs  and  their  rout  all  to  pieces. 

The  only  one  of  the  family  that  could  not  be  made  fash-l 
ionable,  was  the  retired  butcher  himself.     Honest  Lamb,  in 
spite  of  the  meekness  of  his  name,  was  a  rough,  hearty  old 
fellow,  with  the  voice  of  a  lion,  a  head  of  black  hair  like  a ': 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  227 

shoe-brush,  and  a  broad  face  mottled  like  his  own  beef.  It 
was  in  vain  that  the  daughters  always  spoke  of  him  as  the 
"old  gentleman,"  addressed  him  as  "papa,"  in  tones  of 
infinite  softness,  and  endeavored  to  coax  him  into  a  dress 
ing-gown  and  slippers,  and  other  gentlemanly  habits.  Do 
what  they  might,  there  was  no  keeping  down  the  butcher. 
I  Us  sturdy  nature  would  break  through  all  their  glozings. 
lie  had  a  hearty  vulgar  good-humor,  that  was  irrepressible. 
His  very  jokes  made  his  sensitive  daughters  shudder;  and 
he  persisted  in  wearing  his  blue  cotton  coat  of  a  morning, 
dining  at  two  o'clock,  and  having  a  "bit  of  sausage  with 
his  tea." 

He  was  doomed,  however,  to  share  the  unpopularity  of 
his  family.  lie  found Jiis  old  comrades  gradually  growing 
cold  and  civil  to  him;  no  longer  laughing  at  his  jokes;  and 
now  and  then  throwing  out  a  fling  at  "some  people,"  and 
a  hint  about  "quality  binding."  This  both  nettled  and 
perplexed  the  honest  butcher;  and  his  wife  and  daughters, 
with  the  consummate  policy  of  the  shrewder  sex,  taking  ad 
vantage  of  the  circumstances,  at  length  prevailed  upon  him 
to  give  up  his  afternoon  pipe  and  tankard  at  Wagstaff's;  to 
sit  after  dinner  by  himself,  and  take  his  pint  of  port — a 
liquor  he  detested — and  nod  in  his  chair,  in  solitary  and 
dismal  gentility. 

The  Miss  Lambs  might  now  be  seen  flaunting  along  the 
streets  in  French  bonnets,  with  unknown  beaux;  and  talk 
ing  and  laughing  so  loud,  that  it  distressed  the  nerves  of 
every  good  lady  within  hearing.  They  even  went  so  far  as 
to  attempt  patronage,  and  actually  induced  a  French  danc 
ing-muster  to  set  up  in  the  neighborhood;  but  the  worthy 
folks  of  Little  Britain  took  fire  at  it,  and  did  so  persecute 
the  poor  Gaul,  that  he  was  fain  to  pack  up  fiddle  and  danc 
ing-pumps,  and  decamp  with  such  precipitation  that  he 
absolutely  forgot  to  pay  for  his  lodgings. 

I  had  nattered  myself,  at  first,  with  the  idea  that  all  this 
fiery  indignation  on  the  part  of  the  community  was  merely 
the  overflowing  of  their  zeal  for  good  old  English  manners, 
and  their  horror  of  innovation;  and  I  applauded  the  silent 
contempt  they  were  so  vociferous  in  expressing,  for  upstart 
pride,  French  fashions,  and  the  Miss  Lambs.  But  I  grieve 
to  say  that  I  soon  perceived  the  infection  had  taken  hold; 
8>nd  that  my  neighbors,  after  condemning,  were  beginning 


228  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

to  follow  their  example.  I  overheard  my  landlady  impor 
tuning  her  husband  to  let  their  daughters  have  one  quarter 
at  French  and  music,  and  that  they  might  take  a  few  les 
sons  in  quadrille;  I  even  saw,  in  the  course  of  a  few  Sun 
days,  no  less  than  five  French  bonnets,  precisely  like  those 
of  the  Miss  Lambs,  parading  about  Little  Britain. 

I  still  had  my  hopes  that  all  this  folly  would  gradually 
die  away;  that  the  Lambs  might  move  out  of  the  neighbor 
hood;  might  die,  or  might  run  away  with  attorneys'  ap 
prentices;  and  that  quiet  and  simplicity  might  be  again  re 
stored  to  the  community.  But  unluckily  a  rival  power 
arose.  An  opulent  oilman  died,  and  left  a  widow  with  a 
large  jointure,  and  a  family  of  buxom  daughters.  The 
young  ladies  had  long  been  repining  in  secret  at  the  parsi 
mony  of  a  prudent  father,  which  kept  down  all  their  ele 
gant  aspirings.  Their  ambition  being  now  no  longer  re 
strained  broke  out  into  a  blaze,  and  they  openly  took  the 
field  against  the  family  of  the  butcher.  It  is  true  that  the 
Lambs,  having  had  the  first  start,  had  naturally  an  advan 
tage'  of  them  in  the  fashionable  career.  They  could  speak 
a  little  bad  French,  play  the  piano,  dance  quadrilles,  and 
had  formed  high  acquaintance,  but  the  Trotters  were  riot 
to  be  distanced.  When  the  Lambs  appeared  with  two  feath 
ers  in  their  hats,  the  Miss  Trotters  mounted  four,  and  of 
twice  as  fine  colors.  If  the  Lambs  gave  a  dance,  the  Trot 
ters  were  sure  not  to  be  behindhand;  and  though  they  might 
not  boast  of  as  good  company,  yet  they  had  double  the 
number,  and  were  twice  as  merry. 

The  whole  community  has  at  length  divided  itself  ii  to 
fashionable  factions,  under  the  banners  of  these  two  fami 
lies.     The  old  games  of  Pope-Joan  and  Tom-come-tickle- 
me  are  entirely  discarded;  there  is  no  such  thing  as  getting 
up  an  honest  country-dance;  and  on  my  attempting  to  kiss 
a  young  lady  under  the  mistletoe  last  Christmas,  I  was  in-, 
dignantly  repulsed;  the  Miss  Lambs  have  pronounced  it^ 
"Chocking  vulgar."     Bitter  rivalry  has  also  broken  out  as; 
to  the  most  fashionable  part  of  Little  Britain;  the  Lambs 
standing  up  for  the  dignity  of  Cross-Keys  Square,  and  thej 
Trotters  for  the  vicinity  of  St.  Bartholomew's. 

Thus  is  this  little  territory  torn  by  factions  and  internal 
dissensions,  like  the  great  empire  whose  name  it  bears;  and  • 
what  will  be  the  result  would  puzzle  the  apothecary  him- 


LITTLE  BRITAIN  229 

self,  with  all  his  talent  at  prognostics,  to  determine;  though 
I  apprehend  that  it  will  terminate  in  the  total  downfall  of 
genuine  John  Bullism. 

The  immediate  effects  are  extremely  unpleasant  to  me. 
Being  a  single  man,  and,  as  I  observed  before,  rather  an 
idle  good-for-nothing  personage,  I  have  been  considered 
the  only  gentleman  by  profession  in  the  place.  I  stand 
therefore  in  high  favor  with  both  parties,  and  have  to  hear 
all  their  cabinet  councils  and  mutual  backbitings.  As  I 
am  too  civil  not  to  agree  with  the  ladies  on  all  occasions,  I 
have  committed  myself  most  horribly  with  both  parties,  by 
abusing  their  opponents.  I  might  manage  to  reconcile 
this  to  my  conscience,  which  is  a  truly  accommodating  one, 
but  I  cannot  to  my  apprehensions — if  the  Lambs  and 
Trotters  ever  come  to  a  reconciliation,  and  compare  notes, 
I  am  ruined! 

I  have  determined,  therefore,  to  beat  a  retreat  in  time, 
and  am  actually  looking  out  for  some  other  nest  in  this 
great  city,  where  old  English  manners  are  still  kept  up; 
where  French  is  neither  eaten,  drank,  danced,  nor  spoken; 
and  where  there  are  no  fashionable  families  of  retired  trades 
men.  This  found,  I  will,  like  a  veteran  rat,  hasten  away 
before  I  have  an  old  house  about  my  ears — bid  a  long, 
though  a  sorrowful  adieu  to  my  present  abode — and  leave 
the  rival  factions  of  the  Lambs  and  the  Trotters,  to  divu.np 
the  distracted  empire  of  LITTLE  BRITAIN. 


230  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

Thou  soft  flowing  Avon,  by  thy  silver  stream 

Of  things  more  than  mortal  sweet  Shakspeare  would  dream; 

The  fairies  by  moonlight  dance  round  his  green  bed, 

For  hallowed  the  turf  is  which  pillowed  his  head. 

GARRICK. 

To  a  homeless  man,  who  has  no  spot  on  this  wide  world 
which  he  can  truly  call  his  own,  there  is  a  momentary  feel 
ing  of  something  like  independence  and  territorial  conse 
quence,  when,  after  a  weary  day's  travel,  he  kicks  off  his 
boots,  thrusts  his  feet  into  slippers,  and  stretches  himself 
before  an  inn  fire.  Let  the  world  without  go  as  it  may;  let 
kingdoms  rise  or  fall,  so  long  as  he  has  the  wherewithal 
to- pay  his  bill,  he  is,  for  the  time  being,  the  very  monarch 
of  all  he  surveys.  The  arm-chair  is  his  throne,  the  poker 
his  sceptre,  and  the  little  parlor,  of  some  twelve  feet  square, 
his  undisputed  empire.  It  is  a  morsel  of  certainty,  snatched 
from  the  midst  of  the  uncertainties  of  life;  it  is  a  sunny 
moment  gleaming  out  kindly  on  a  cloudy  day;  and  he  who, 
has  advanced  some  way  on  the  pilgrimage  of  existence, 
knows  the  importance  of  husbanding  even  morsels  and  mo 
ments  of  enjoyment.  "  Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease  in  mine 
inn?"  thought  I,  as  I  gave  the  fire  a  stir,  lolled  back  in  my1 
elbow-chair,  and  cast  a  complacent  look  about  the  little, 
parlor  of  the  Red  Horse,  at  Stratford-on-Avon. 

The  words  of  sweet  Shakspeare  were  just  passing  through 
my  mind  as  the  clock  struck  midnight  from  the  tower  of  the;; 
church  in  which  he  lies  buried.  There  was  a  gentle  tap  at 
the  door,  and  a  pretty  chambermaid,  putting  in  her  smil 
ing  face,  inquired,  witli  a  hesitating  air,  whether  I  had 
rung.  I  understood  it  as  a  modest  hint  that  it  was  time  tO| 
retire.  My  dream  of  absolute  dominion  was  at  an  end;  so 
abdicating  my  throne,  like  a  prudent  potentate,  to  avoid 
being  deposed,  and  putting  the  Stratford  Guide-Book  under  f 
my  arm,  as  a  pillow  companion,  I  went  to  bed  and  dream: 
all  night  of  Shakspeare,  the  Jubilee,  and  David  Garrick, 


STRATFORD-ON-A  VON.  231 

The  next  morning  was  one  of  those  quickening  mornings 
which  we  sometimes  have  in  early  spring;  for  it  was  about 
the  middle  of  March.  The  chills  of  a  long  winter  had  sud 
denly  given  way;  the  north  wind  had  spent  its  last  gasp; 
and  a  mild  air  came  stealing  from  the  west,  breathing  the 
breath  of  life  into  nature,  and  wooing  every  bud  and  flower 
to  burst  forth  into  fragrance  and  beauty. 

I  had  come  to  Stratford  on  a  poetical  pilgrimage.  My 
first  visit  was  to  the  house  where  Shakspeare  was  born,  and 
where,  according  to  tradition,  he  was  brought  up  to  his 
father's  craft  of  wool-combing.  It  is  a  small,  mean-looking 
edifice  of  wood  and  plaster,  a  true  nestling-place  of  genius, 
which  seems  to  delight  in  hatching  its  offspring  in  by-cor 
ners.  The  walls  of  its  squalid  chambers  are  covered  with 
names  and  inscriptions  in  every  language,  by  pilgrims  of 
all  nations,  ranks,  and  conditions,  from  the  prince  to  the 
aeasant;  and  present  a  striking  instance  of  the  spontaneous 
ind  universal  homage  of  mankind  to  the  great  poet  of 
nature. 

The  house  is  shown  by  a  garrulous  old  lady,  in  a  frosty 
red  face,  lighted  up  by  a  cold  blue  anxious  eye,  and  gar 
nished  with  artificial  locks  of  flaxen  hair,  curling  from 
under  an  exceedingly  dirty  cap.  She  was  peculiarly  assid 
uous  in  exhibiting  the  relics  with  which  this,  like  all  other 
:elebrated  shrines,  abounds.  There  was  the  shattered  stock 
of  the  very  matchlock  with  which  Shakspeare  shot  the 
deer,  on  his  poaching  exploits.  There,  too,  "was  his  tobacco- 
aox;  which  proves  that  he  was  a  rival  smoker  of  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh;  the  sword  also  with  which  he  played  Hamlet;  and 
:he  identical  lantern  with  which  Friar  Laurence  discovered 
Romeo  and  Juliet  at  the  tomb!  There  was  an  ample  sup 
ply  also  of  Shakspeare's  mulberry-tree,  which  seems  to  have 
is  extraordinary  powers  of  self-multiplication  as  the  wood 
)f  the  true  cross;  of  which  there  is  enough  extant  to  build 
i  ship  of  the  line. 

The  most  favorite  object  of  curiosity,  however,  is  Shak 
speare's  chair.  It  stands  in  the  chimney-nook  of  a  small 
gloomy  chamber,  just  behind  what  was  his  father's  shop. 
Here  he  may  many  a  time  have  sat  when  a  boy,  watching 
|;he  slowly-revolving  spit,  with  all  the  longing  of  an  urchin; 
>r,  of  an  evening,  listening  to  the  crones  and  gossips  of 
Stratford,  dealing  forth  churchyard  tales  and  legendary 


232  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

anecdotes  of  the  troublesome  times  in  England.  In  this 
chair  it  is  the  custom  of  everyone  who  visits  the  house  to 
sit:  whether  this  be  done  with  the  hope  of  imbibing  any  of 
the  inspiration  of  the  bard,  I  am  at  a  loss  to  say;  I  merely 
mention  the  fact;  and  mine  hostess  privately  assured  me 
that,  though  built  of  solid  oak,  such  was  the  fervent  zeal 
of  devotees,  that  the  chair  had  to  be  new-bottomed  at  least 
once  in  three  years.  It  is  worthy  of  notice  also,  in  the 
history  of  this  extraordinary  chair,  that  it  partakes  some 
thing  of  the  volatile  nature  of  the  Santa  Casa  of  Loretto, 
or  the  flying  chair  of  the  Arabian  enchanter;  for  though 
sold  some  few  years  since  to  a  northern  princess,  yet, 
strange  to  tell,  it  has  found  its  way  back  again  to  the  old 
chimney-corner, 

I  am  always  of  easy  faith  in  such  matters,  and  am  very 
willing  to  be  deceived,  where  the  deceit  is  pleasant  and 
costs  nothing.  I  am  therefore  a  ready  believer  in  relics, 
legends,  and  local  anecdotes  of  goblins  and  great  men;  and 
would  advise  all  travellers  who  travel  for  their  gratification 
to  be  the  same.  What  is  it  to  us  whether  these  stories  are 
true  or  false  so  long  as  we  can  persuade  ourselves  into  the 
belief  of  them,  and  enjoy  all  the  charm  of  the  reality? 
There  is  nothing  like  resolute  good-humored  credulity  in 
these  matters;  and  on  this  occasion  I  went  even  so  far  as 
willingly  to  believe  the  claims  of  mine  hostess  to  a  lineal 
descent  from  the  poet,  when,  unluckily  for  my  faith,  she 
put  into  my  hands  a  play  of  her  own  composition,  which 
set  all  belief  in  her  consanguinity  at  defiance. 

From  the  birth-place  of  Shakspeare  a  few  paces  brought 
me  to  his  grave.  He  lies  buried  in  the  chancel  of  the  parish 
church,  a  large  and  venerable  pile,  mouldering  with  age, 
but  richly  ornamented.  It  stands  on  the  banks  of  the 
Avon,  on  an  embowered  point,  and  separated  by  adjoining 
gardens  from  the  suburbs  of  the  tpwn.  Its  situation  ia\ 
quiet  and  retired:  the  river  runs  murmuring  at  the  foot, of 
the  churchyard,  and  the  elms  which  grow  upon  its  banks 
droop  their  branches  into  its  clear  bosom.  An  avenue  of; 
limes,  the  boughs  of  which  are  curiously  interlaced,  so  as 
to  form  in  summer  an  arched  way  of  foliage,  leads  up  from 
the  gate  of  the  yard  to  the  church  porch.  The  graves  are 
overgrown  with  grass;  the  gray  tombstones,  some  of  them 
nearly  sunk  into  the  earth,  are  half-covered  with  moss, 
which  has  likewise  tinted  the  reverend  old  building.  Small 


8TRA  TFORD-ON-A  VON.  233 

birds  have  built  their  nests  among  the  cornices  and  fissures 
of  the  walls,  and  keep  up  a  continual  flutter  and  chirping; 
and  rooks  are  sailing  and  cawing  about  its  lofty  gray  spire. 

In  the  course  of  my  rambles  I  met  with  the  grayheaded 
sexton,  and  accompanied  him  home  to  get  the  key  of  the 
church.  He  had  lived  in  Stratford,  man  and  boy,  for 
eighty  years,  and  seemed  still  to  consider  himself  a  vigor 
ous  man,  with  the  trivial  exception  that  he  had  nearly  lost 
the  use  of  his  legs  for  a  few  years  past.  His  dwelling  was 
a  cottage,  looking  out  upon  the  Avon  and  its  bordering 
meadows,  and  was  a  picture  of  that  neatness,  order  and 
comfort,  which  pervade  the  humblest  dwelling  in  this 
country.  A  low  whitewashed  room,  with  a  stone  floor 
carefully  scrubbed,  served  for  parlor,  kitchen,  and  hall. 
Rows  of  pewter  and  earthen  dishes  glittered  along  the 
dresser.  On  an  old  oaken  table,  well  rubbed  and  polished, 
lay  the  family  bible  and  prayer-book,  and  the  drawer  con 
tained  the  family  library,  composed  of  about  half  a  score 
of  well-thumbed  volumes.  An  ancient  clock,  that  impor 
tant  article  of  cottage  furniture,  ticked  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  room,  with  a  bright  warming-pan  hanging  on 
one  side  of  it,  and  the  old  man's  horn-handled  Sunday  cane 
on  the  other.  The  fire-place,  as  usual,  was  wide  and  deep 
enough  to  admit  a  gossip  knot  within  its  jambs.  In  one 
corner  sat  the  old  man's  granddaughter  sewing,  a  pretty 
blue-eyed  girl, — and  in  the  opposite  corner  was  a  superan 
nuated  crony,  whom  he  addressed  by  the  name  of  John 
Ange,  and  who,  I  found,  had  been  his  companion  from 
childhood.  They  had  played  together  in  infancy;  they 
had  worked  together  in  manhood;  they  were  now  tottering 
about  and  gossiping  away  the  evening  of  life;  and  in  a 
short  time  they  will  probably  be  buried  together  in  the 
neighboring  churchyard.  It  is  not  often  that  we  see  two 
streams  of  existence  running  thus  evenly  and  tranquilly 
side  by  side;  it  is  only  in  such  quiet  "bosom  scenes  "of 
life  that  they  are  to  be  met  with. 

I  had  hoped  to  gather  some  traditionary  anecdotes  of  the 
bard  from  these  ancient  chroniclers;  but  they  had  nothing 
new  to  impart.  The  long  interval,  during  which  Shakr- 
peare's  writings  lay  in  comparative  neglect,  has  spread  its 
shadow  over  history;  and  it  is  his  good  or  evil  lot,  that 
scarcely  anything  remains  to  his  biographers  but  a  scanty 
handful  of  conjectures. 


234  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

The  sexton  and  his  companion  had  been  employed  as 
carpenters,  on  the  preparations  for  the  celebrated  Stratford 
jubilee,  and  they  remembered  Garrick,  the  prime  mover  of 
the  fete,  who  superintended  the  arrangements,  and  who, 
according  to  the  sexton,  was  '''a  short  punch  man,  very 
lively  and  bustling."  John  Ange  had  assisted  also  in  cut 
ting  down  Shakspeare's  mulberry-tree,  of  which  he  had  a 
morsel  in  his  pocket  for  sale,  no  doubt  a  sovereign  quick- 
ener  of  literary  conception. 

I  was  grieved  to  hear  these  two  worthy  wights  speak 
very  dubiously  of  the  eloquent  dame  who  shows  the 
Shakspeare  house.  John  Ange  shook  his  head  when  I 
mentioned  her  valuable  and  inexhaustible  collection  of 
relics,  particularly  her  remains  of  the  mulberry-tree;  and: 
the  old  sexton  even  expressed  a  doubt  as  to  Shakspearl 
having  been  born  in  her  house.  I  soon  discovered  that  ha 
looked  upon  her  mansion  with  an  evil  eye,  as  a  rival  to  thJ 
poet's  tomb;  the  latter  having  comparatively  but  few  vis4 
itors.  Thus  it  is  that  historians  differ  at  the  very  outset^ 
and  mere  pebbles  make  the  stream  of  truth  diverge  intd 
different  channels,  even  at  the  fountain-head. 

We  approached  the  church  through  the  avenue  of  limes,] 
and  entered  by  a  Crothic  porch,  highly  ornamented  witH 
carved  doors  of  massive  oak.  The  interior  is  spacious,  ana 
the  architecture  and  embellishments  superior  to  those  of 
most  country  churches.  There  are  several  ancient  monu-j 
ments  of  nobility  and  gentry,  over  some  of  which  hangj 
funeral  escutcheons,  and  banners  dropping  piecemeal  fronts 
the  walls.  The  tomb  of  Shakspeare  is  in  the  chancej 
The  place  is  solemn  and  sepulchral.  Tall  elms  wave  b 
fore  the  pointed  windows,  and  the  Avon,  which  runs  at  1 
short  distance  from  the  walls,  keeps  up  a  low  perpetual 
murmur.  A  flat  stone  marks  the  spot  where  the  bard  is 
buried.  There  are  four  lines  inscribed  on  it,  said  to  havjj 
been  written  by  himself,  and  which  have  in  them  some-, 
thing  extremely  awful.  If  they  are  indeed  his  own,  the$ 
show  that  solicitude  about  the  quiet  of  the  grave  which 
seems  natural  to  fine  sensibilities  and  thoughtful  minds:  , 

Good  friend,  for  Jesus'  sake,  forbeare 
To  dig  the  dust  inclosed  here. 
Blessed  be  he  that  spares  these  stones, 
And  curst  be  he  that  moves  iny  bones. 


STRA  TFO  RD-ON-A  VON.  235 

Just  over  the  grave,  in  a  niche  of  the  wall,  is  a  bust  of 
Shakspeare,  put  up  shortly  after  his  death,  and  considered 
as  a  resemblance.  The  aspect  is  pleasant  and  serene,  with 
a  finely  arched  forehead;  and  I  thought  I  could  read  in  it 
clear  indications  of  that  cheerful,  social  disposition,  hy 
which  he  was  as  much  characterized  among  his  contem 
poraries  as  by  the  vastness  of  his  genius.  The  inscription 
mentions  his  age  at  the  time  of  his  decease — fifty-three 
years;  an  untimely  death  for  the  world:  for  what  fruit  might 
not  have  been  expected  from  the  golden  autumn  of  such  a 
mind,  sheltered  as  it  was  from  the  stormy  vicissitudes  of  life, 
and  flourishing  in  the  sunshine  of  popular  and  royal  favor! 

The  inscription  on  the  tombstone  has  not  been  without 
its  effect.  It  has  prevented  the  removal  of  his  remains 
from  the  bosom  of  his  native  place  to  Westminster  Abbey, 
which  was  at  one  time  contemplated.  A  few  years  since 
also,  as  some  laborers  were  digging  to  make  an  adjoining 
vault,  the  earth  caved  in,  so  as  to  leave  a  vacant  space 
almost  like  an  arch,  through  which  one  might  have 
reached  into  his  grave.  No  one,  however,  presumed  to 
meddle  with  the  remains  so  awfully  guarded  by  a  maledic 
tion;  and  lest  any  of  the  idle  or  the  curious,  or  any  collector 
of  relics,  should  be  tempted  to  commit  depredations,  the 
old  sexton  kept  watch  over  the  place  for  two  days,  until  the 
vault  was  finished,  and  the  aperture  closed  again.  He  told 
me  that  he  had  made  bold  to  look  in  at  the  hole,  but  could 
see  neither  coffin  nor  bones;  nothing  but  dust.  It  was 
something,  I  thought,  to  have  seen  the  dust  of  Shakspeare. 

Next  to  this  grave  are  those  of  his  wife,  his  favorite 
daughter  Mrs.  Hall,  and  others  of  his  family.  On  a  tomb 
close  by,  also,  is  a  full-length  effigy  of  his  old  friend  John 
Combe,  of  usurious  memory;  on  whom  he  is  said  to  have 
written  a  ludicrous  epitaph.  There  are  other  monuments 
around,  but  the  mind  refuses  to  dwell  on  anything  that  is 
not  connected  with  Shakspeare.  His  idea  pervades  the 
place — the  whole  pile  seems  but  as  his  mausoleum.  The 
feelings,  no  longer  checked  and  thwarted  by  doubt,  here 
indulge  in  perfect  confidence;  other  traces  of  him  may  be 
false  or  dubious,  but  here  is  palpable  evidence  and  absolute 
certainty.  As  I  trod  the  sounding  pavement,  there  was 
something  intense  and  thrilling  in  the  idea,  that,  in  very 
truth,  the  remains  of  Shakspeare  were  mouldering  beneath 


236  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

my  feet.  It  was  a  long  time  before  I  could  prevail  upon 
myself  to  leave  the  place;  and  as  I  passed  through  the 
churchyard,  I  plucked  a  branch  from  one  of  the  yew-trees, 
the  only  relic  that  I  have  brought  from  Stratford. 

I  had  now  visited  the  usual  objects  of  a  pilgrim's  devo 
tion,  but  I  had  a  desire  to  see  the  old  family  seat  of  the 
Lucys  at  Charlecot,  and  to  ramble  through  the  park  where 
Shakspeare,  in  company  with  some  of  the  roisterers  of 
Stratford,  committed  his  youthful  offence  of  deer-stealing. 
In  this  hairbrained  exploit  we  are  told  that  he  was  taken 
prisoner,  and  carried  to  the  keeper's  lodge,  where  he 
remained  all  night  in  doleful  captivity.  When  brought 
into  the  presence  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  his  treatment  must 
have  been  galling  and  humiliating;  for  it  so  wrought  upon 
his  spirit  as  to  produce  a  rough  pasquinade,  which  was 
affixed  to  the  park  gate  at  Charlecot.* 

This  flagitious  attack  upon  the  dignity  of  the  Knight  so 
incensed  him,  that  he  applied  to  a  lawyer  at  Warwick  to 
put  the  severity  of  the  laws  in  force  against  the  rhyming 
deer-stalker.  Shakspeare  did  not  wait  to  brave  the  united 
puissance  of  a  Knight  of  the  Shire  and  a  country  attorney. 
He  forthwith  abandoned  the  pleasant  banks  of  the  Avon 
and  his  paternal  trade;  wandered  away  to  London;  became 
a  hanger-on  to  the  theatres;  then  an  actor;  and,  finally, 
wrote  for  the  stage;  and  thus,  through  the  persecution  of 
Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  Stratford  lost  an  indifferent  wool- 
comber,  and  the  world  gained  an  immortal  poet.  He  re 
tained,  however,  for  a  long  time,  a  sense  of  the  harsh 
treatment  of  the  Lord  of  Charlecot,  and  revenged  himself 
in  his  writings;  but  in  the  sportive  way  of  a  good-natured 
mind.  Sir  Thomas  is  said  to  be  the  original  of  Justice 
Shallow,  and  the  satire  is  slyly  fixed  upon  him  by  the 
Justice's  armorial  bearings,  which,  like  those  of  the  Knight, 
had  white  luces  f  in  the  quarterings. 

*  The  following  is  the  only  stanza  extant  of  this  lampoon: 
A  parliament  member,  a  justice  of  peace, 
At  home  a  poor  scarecrow,  at  London  an  asse, 
If  lowsic  is  Lucy,  as  some  volke  miscalle  it, 
Then  Lucy  is  lowsie,  whatever  befall  it. 
He  thinks  himself  threat; 
Yet  an  asse  in  his  state, 
We  allow  by  his  ears  with  but  asses  to  mate. 
If  Lucy  is  lowsie, as  some  volke  miscalle  it, 
Then  sing  lowsie  Lucy,  whatever  befall  it. 

t  The  luce  is  a  pike  or  jack,  and  abounds  in  the  Avon,  about  Charlecot. 


8TRA  TFORD-ON-A  VON.  23  7 

Various  attempts  have  been  made  by  his  biographers  to 
soften  and  explain  away  this  early  transgression  of  the 
poet;  but  I  look  upon  it  as  one  of  those  thoughtless  ex 
ploits  natural  to  his  situation  and  turn  of  mind.  Shak- 
speare,  when  young,  had  doubtless  all  the  wildness  and 
irregularity  of  an  ardent,  undisciplined,  and  undirected 
genius.  The  poetic  temperament  has  naturally  something 
in  it  of  the  vagabond.  When  left  to  itself,  it  runs  loosely 
and  wildly,  and  delights  in  everything  eccentric  and  licen 
tious.  It  is  often  a  turn-up  of  a  die,  in  the  gambling 
freaks  of  fate,  whether  a  natural  genius  shall  turn  out  a 
great  rogue  or  a  great  poet;  and  had  not  Shakspeare's 
mind  fortunately  taken  a  literary  bias,  he  might  have  as 
daringly  transcended  all  civil,  as  he  has  all  dramatic  laws. 

I  have  little  doubt,  that  in  early  life,  when  running,  like 
an  unbroken  colt,  about  the  neighborhood  of  Stratford,  he 
was  to  be  found  in  the  company  of  all  kinds  of  odd  and 
anomalous  characters;  that  he  associated  with  all  the  mad 
caps  of  the  place,  and  was  one  of  those  unlucky  urchins, 
at  mention  of  whom  old  men  shake  their  heads,  and  pre 
dict  that  they  will  one  day  come  to  the  gallows.  To  him 
the  poaching  in  Sir  Thomas  Lucy's  park  was  doubtless  like 
a  foray  to  a  Scottish  Knight,  and  struck  his  eager,  and  as 
yet  untamed,  imagination,  as  something  delightfully  ad 
venturous.* 

*  A  proof  of  Shakspeare's  random  habits  and  associates  in  his  youthful 
days  may  be  found  in  a  traditionary  anecdote,  picked  up  at  Stratford  by  the 
elder  Ireland,  and  mentioned  in  his  Picturesque  Views  on  the  Avon." 

About  seven  miles  from  Stratford  lies  the  thirsty  little  market  town  of  Bed 
ford,  famous  for  its  ale.  Two  societies  of  the  village  yeomanry  used  to  meet, 
under  the  appellation  of  the  Bedford  topers,  and  to  challenge  the  lovers  of  good 
ale  of  the  neighboring  villages  to  a  contest  of  drinking.  Among  others,  the 
people  of  Stratford  were  called  out  to  prove  the  strength  of  their  heads;  and 
in  the  number  of  the  champions  was  Shakspeare,  who,  in  spite  of  the  proverb  that 
"  they  who  drink  beer  will  think  beer,"  was  as  true  to  his  ale  as  Falstaff  to  his 
sack.  The  chivalry  of  Stratford  was  staggered  at  the  first  onset,  and  sounded 
a  retreat  while  they  had  legs  to  carry  them  off  the  field.  They  had  scarcely 
inarched  a  mile,  when,  their  legs  failing  them,  they  were  forced  to  lie  down 
under  a  crab-tree,  where  they  passed  the  night.  It  is  still  standing,  and  goes 
by  the  name  of  Shakspeare's  tree. 

In  the  morning  his  companions  awaked  the  bard,  and  proposed  returning  to 
Bedford,  but  he  declined,  saying  he  had  had  enough,  having  drunk  with 

Piping  Pebworth,  Dancing  Marston, 
Haunted  Ililbro',  Hungry  Grafton, 
Drudging  Exhall,  Papist  Wicksford, 
Beggarly  Broom,  and  drunken  Bedford. 

"The  villages  here  alluded  to,"  says  Ireland,  "still  bear  the  epithets  thus 
given  them:  the  people  of  Pebworth  are  still  famed  for  their  skill  on  the  pip« 
and  tabor;  Hillborough  is  now  called  Haunted  Hillborough;  and  Grafton  is  fa 
mous  for  the  poverty  of  its  soil. 


238  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

The  old  mansion  of  Charlecot  and  its  surrounding  park 
still  remain  in  the  possession  of  the  Lucy  family,  and  are 
peculiarly  interesting  from  being  connected  with  this 
whimsical  but  eventful  circumstance  in  the  scanty  history 
of  the  bard.  As  the  house  stood  at  little  more  than  three 
miles'  distance  from  Stratford,  I  resolved  to  pay  it  a  pedes 
trian  visit,  that  I  might  stroll  leisurely  through  some  of 
those  scenes  from  which  Shakspeare  must  have  derived  his 
earliest  ideas  of  rural  imagery. 

The  country  was  yet  naked  and  leafless;  but  English 
scenery  is  always  verdant,  and  the  sudden  change  in  the 
temperature  of  the  weather  was  surprising  in  its  quicken 
ing  effects  upon  the  landscape.  It  was  inspiring  and  ani^ 
mating  to  witness  this  first  awakening  of  spring;  to  feel  its 
warm  breath  stealing  over  the  senses;  to  see  the  moist, 
mellow  earth  beginning  to  put  forth  the  green  sprout  and 
the  tender  blade;  and  the  frees  and  shrubs,  in  their  reviv 
ing  tints  and  bursting  buds,  giving  the  promise  of  return 
ing  foliage  and  flower.  The  cold  snow -drop,  that  little 
borderer  on  the  skirts  of  -winter,  was  to  be  seen  with  its 
chaste  white  blossoms  in  the  small  gardens  before  the  cot 
tages.  The  bleating  of  the  new-dropt  lambs  was  faintly 
heard  from  the  fields.  The  sparrow  twittered  about  the 
thatched  eaves  and  budding  hedges;  the  robin  threw  a  live 
lier  note  into  his  late  querulous  wintry  strain;  and  the  lark, 
springing  up  from  the  reeking  bosom  of  the  meadow, 
towered  away  into  the  bright  fleecy  cloud,  pouring  forth 
torrents  of  melody.  As  I  watched  the  little  songster, 
mounting  up  higher  and  higher,  until  his  body  was  a  mere 
speck  on  the  white  bosom  of  the  cloud,  while  the  ear  was 
still  filled  with  his  music,  it  called  to  mind  Shakspeare's 
exquisite  little  song  in  Cymbeline: 

Hark!  hark!  the  lark  at  heav'n's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs, 

On  chaliced  Mowers  that  lies. 

And  winking  inary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes; 
With  every  thing  that  pretty  bin, 

My  lady  sweet,  arise! 

Indeed,  the  whole  country  about  here  is  poetic  ground: 
everything  is  associated  with  the  idea  of  Shakspeare.  Every 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON.  239 

old  cottage  that  I  saw,  I  fancied  into  some  resort  of  his 
boyhood,  where  he  had  acquired  his  intimate  knowledge  of 
rustic  life  and  manners,  and  heard  those  legendary  tales 
and  wild  superstitions  which  he  has  woven  like  witchcraft 
into  his  dramas.  For  in  his  time,  we  are  told,  it  was  a 
popular  amusement  in  winter  evenings  "to  sit  round  the. 
fire,  and  tell  merry  tales  of  errant  knights,  queens,  lovers, 
lords,  ladies,,  giants,  dwarfs,  thieves,  cheaters,  witches,  fair 
ies,  goblins,  and  friars."  * 

My  route  for  a  part  of  die  way  lay  in  sight  of  the  Avon, 
which  made  a  variety  of  the  most  fanciful  doublings  and 
windings  through  a  wide  and  fertile  valley;  sometimes  glit 
tering  from  among  willows,  which  fringed  its  borders; 
sometimes  disappearing  among  groves,  or  beneath  green 
banks;  and  sometimes  rambling  out  into  full  view,  and 
making  an  azure  sweep  round  a  slope  of  meadow  land. 
This  beautiful  bosom  of  country  is  called  the  Vale  of  the 
Red  Horse.  A  distant  line  of  undulating  blue  hills  seems 
to  be  its  boundary,  whilst  all  the  soft  intervening  landscape 
lies  in  a  manner  enchained  in  the  silver  links  of  the  Avon. 

After  pursuing  the  road  for  about  three  miles,  I  turned 
off  into  a  foot-path,  which  led  along  the  borders  of  fields 
and  under  hedge-rows  to  a  private  gate  of  the  park;  there 
was  a  stile,  however,  for  the  benefit  of  the  pedestrian;  there 
being  a  public  right  of  way  through  the  grounds.  I  delight 
in  these  hospitable  estates,  in  which  everyone  has  a  kind  of 
property — at  least  as  far  as  the  foot-path  is  concerned.  It 
in  some  measure  reconciles  a  poor  man  to  his  lot,  and  what 
is .  more,  to  the  better  lot  of  his  neighbor,  thus  to  have 
pa:-ks  and  pleasure-grounds  thrown  open  for  his  recreation. 
He  breathes  the  pure  air  as  freely,  and  lolls  as  luxuriously 
under  the  shade,  as  the  lord  of  the  soil;  and  if  he  has  not 
the  privilege  of  calling  all  that  he  sees  his  own,  he  has  not, 
at  the  same  time,  the  trouble  of  paying  for  it,  and  keeping 
it  in  order. 

I  now  found  myself  among  noble  avenues  of  oaks  and 
elms,  whose  vast  size  bespoke  the  growth  of  centuries.  The 

*Scot,  in  his  "Discoverie  of  Witchcraft,"  enumerates  a  host  of  these  fire 
side  fancies.  "And  they  have  so  ('raid  us  with  bull-beggers,  spirits,  witches, 
urchins,  elves,  hag's,  fairies,  s.-ityrs.  pans,  Cannes,  syrens,  kit  with  the  can  stieke, 
tritons,  centaurs,  dwurfes.  iriantes,  imps,  oalcars,  conjurors,  nymphes, change 
lings,  incubus,  Kohin  good  fellow,  the  sporne,  the  mare,  the  man  in  the  oke, 
the  hellwaine,  the  tier  drake,  the  pnekle.  Tom  Thombe,  hobgoblins.  Tom 
Tumbler,  boneless,  and  such  other  bugs,  that  we  were  afraid  of  our  own 


340  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

wind  sounded  solemnly  among  their  branches,  and  the 
rooks  cawed  from  their  hereditary  nests  in  the  tree  tops. 
The  eye  ranged  through  a  long  lessening  vista,  with  noth 
ing  to  interrupt  the  view  but  a  distant  statue,  and  a  vagrant, 
deer  stal king-  like  a  shadow  across  the  opening. 

There  is  something  about  these  stately  old  avenues  that 
has  the  effect  of  Gothic  architecture,  not  merely  from  the 
pretended  similarity  of  form,  but  from  their  bearing  the 
evidence  of  long  duration,  and  of  having  had  their  origin 
in  a  period  of  time  with  which  we  associate  ideas  of  roman 
tic  grandeur.  They  betoken  also  the  long-settled  dignity, 
and  proudly  concentrated  independence  of  an  ancient 
family;  and  I  have  heard  a  worthy  but  aristocratic  old 
friend  observe,  when  speaking  of  the  sumptuous  palaces  of 
modern  gentry,  that  "  money  could  do  much  with  stone 
and  mortar,  but,  thank  Heaven,  there  was  no  such  thing 
as  suddenly  building  up  an  avenue  of  oaks." 

It  was  from  wandering  in  early  life  among  this  rich 
scenery,  and  about  the  romantic  solitudes  of  the  adjoining 
park  of  Fullbroke,  which  then  formed  a  part  of  the  Lucy 
estate,  that  some  of  Shakspeare's  commentators  have  sup 
posed  he  derived  his  noble  forest  meditations  of  Jacques, 
and  the  enchanting  woodland  pictures  in  "As  You  Like  It." 
It  is  in  lonely  wanderings  through  such  scenes,  that  the 
mind  drinks  deep  but  quiet  draughts  of  inspiration,  and 
becomes  intensely  sensible  of  the  beauty  and  majesty  of 
nature.  The  imagination  kindles  into  reverie  and  rapture; 
vague  but  exquisite  images  and  ideas  keep  breaking  upon 
it;  and  we  revel  in  a  mute  and  almost  incommunicable 
luxury  of  thought.  It  was  in  some  such  mood,  and  per 
haps  under  one  of  those  very  trees  before  me,  which  threw 
their  broad  shades  over  the  grassy  banks  and  quivering 
waters  of  the  Avon,  that  the  poet's  fancy  may  have  sallied 
forth  into  that  little  song  which  breathes  the  very  soul  of  a 
rural  voluptuary: 

Under  tlie  green-wood  tree, 

Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 

And  tune  his  merry  throat 

Unto  the  sweet  bird's  note, 

Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither, 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy 

But  winter  and  rough  weather. 


STRA  TFORD-ON-A  VON.  241 

I  had  now  come  in  sight  of  the  house.  It  is  a  large  build 
ing  of  brick,  with  stone  quoins,  and  is  in  the  Gothic  style 
of  Queen  Elizabeth's  day,  having  been  built  in  the  first  year 
of  her  reign.  The  exterior  remains  very  nearly  in  its 
original  state,  and  may  be  considered  a  fair  specimen  of  the 
residence  of  a  wealthy  country  gentleman  of  those  days. 
A  great  gateway  opens  from  the  park  into  a  kind  of  court 
yard  in  front  of  the  house,  ornamented  with  a  grass-plot, 
shrubs,  and  flower-beds.  The  gateway  is  in  imitation  of 
the  ancient  barbican;  being  a  kind  of  outpost,  and  flanked 
by  towers;  though  evidently  for  mere  ornament,  instead  of 
defence.  The  front  of  the  house  is  completely  in  the  old 
style;  with  stone  shafted  casements,  a  great  bow-window  of 
heavy  stone  work,  and  a  portal  with  armorial  bearings  over 
it,  carved  in  stone.  At  each  corner  of  the  building  is  an 
octagon  tower,  surmounted  by  a  gilt  ball  and  weathercock. 

The  Avon,  which  winds  through  the  park,  makes  a  bend 
just  at  the  foot  of  a  gently  sloping  bank,  which  sweeps 
down  from  the  rear  of  the  house.  Large  herds  of  deer  were 
feeding  or  reposing  upon  its  borders;  and  swans  were  sail 
ing  majestically  upon  its  bosom.  As  I  contemplated  the 
venerable  old  mansion,  I  called  to  mind  Falstaff's  encomium 
on  Justice  Shallow's  abode,  and  the  affected  indifference 
and  real  vanity  of  the  latter: 

"Falstaff.     You  have  here  a  goodly  dwelling  and  a  rich. 
"Shallow.     Barren,    barren,  barren;  beggars  all,  beggars  all,  Sir 
John: — marry,  good  air." 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  joviality  of  the  old  mansion 
in  the  days  of  Shakspeare,  it  had  now  an  air  of  stillness 
and  solitude.  The  great  iron  gateway  that  opened  into  the 
court-yard  was  locked;  there  was  no  show  of  servants 
bustling  about  the  place;  the  deer  gazed  quietly  at  me  as  I 
passed,  being  no  longer  harried  by  the  moss-troopers  of 
Stratford.  The  only  sign  of  domestic  life  that  I  met  with 
was  a  white  cat,  stealing  with  wary  look  and  stealthy  pace 
towards  the  stables,  as  if  on  some  nefarious  expedition.  I 
must  not  omit  to  mention  the  carcass  of  a  scoundrel  crow 
which  I  saw  suspended  against  the  barn  wall,  as  it  shows 
that  the  Lucys  still  inherit  that  lordly  abhorrence  of 
poachers,  and  maintain  that  rigorous  exercise  of  territorial 


242  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

power  which  was  so  strenuously  manifested  in  the  case  of 
the  bard. 

After  prowling  about  for  some  time,  I  at  length  found 
my  way  to  a  lateral  portal,  which  was  the  every-day  ' 
entrance  to  the  mansion.  I  was  courteously  received  by  a 
worthy  old  housekeeper,  who,  with  the  civility  and  com-  : 
nmnicativeness  of  her  order,  showed  me  the  interior  of  the 
house.  The  greater  part  has  undergone  alterations,  and 
been  adapted  to  modern  tastes  and  modes  of  living:  there 
is  a  fine  old  oaken  staircase;  and  the  great  hall,  that  noble 
feature  in  an  ancient  manor-house,  still  retains  much  of  the 
appearance  it  must  have  had  in  the  days  of  Shakspeare. 
The  ceiling  is  arched  and  lofty;  and  at  one  end  is  a  gallery, 
in  which  stands  an  organ.  The  weapons  and  trophies  of 
the  chase,  which  formerly  adorned  the  hall  of  a  country 
gentleman,  have  made  way  for  family  portraits.  There  is 
a  wide  hospitable  fire-place,  calculated  for  an  ample  old- 
fashioned  wood  fire,  formerly  the  rallying  place  of  winter 
festivity.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  hall  is  the  huge 
Gothic  bow-window,  with  stone  shafts,  which  looks  out 
upon  the  court-yard.  Here  are  emblazoned  in  stained  glass 
the  armorial  bearings  of  the  Lucy  family  for  many  genera 
tions,  some  being  dated  in  1558.  I  was  delighted  to 
observe  in  the  quarterings  the  three  White  luces  by  which 
the  character  of  Sir  Thomas  was  first  identified  with  that 
of  Justice  Shallow.  They  are  mentioned  in  the  first  scene 
of  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  where  the  Justice  is  in  a 
rage  with  Falstaff  for  having  "  beaten  his  men,  killed  his 
deer,  and  broken  into  his  lodge."  The  poet  had  no  doubt 
the  offences  of  himself  and  his  comrades  in  mind  at  the 
time,  and  we  may  suppose  the  family  pride  and  vindictive 
threats  of  the  puissant  Shallow  to  be  a  caricature  of  the 
pompous  indignation  of  Sir  Thomas. 

''Shallow.  Sir  Hugh,  persuade  me  not:  I  will  make  a  Star 
Chamber  matter  of  it;  if  be  were  twenty  Sir  John  Falstaffs,  he  shall 
not  abuse  Robert  Shallow,  Esq. 

"Slender.     In  the  county  of  Gloster,  justice,  peace,  and  coram. 

"Shallow.     Ay,  cousin  Slender,  and  custalorum. 

"Slender.  Ay,  and  ratalorum  too,  and  a  gentleman  born,  master 
parson;  who  writes  himself  Armigc.ro  in  any  bill,  warrant,  quittance, 
or  obligation,  Armigero. 

"Shallow.  Ay,  that  I  do;  and  have  done  any  time  these  three 
hundred  years. 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON.  24» 

"  Slender.  All  his  successors  gone  before  him  have  done  *t,  and 
all  his  ancestors  that  come  after  him  may;  they  may  give  the  dozen 
white,  luces  in  their  coat. 

"  Shallow.     The  council  shall  hear  it;  it  is  a  riot. 

"  Evans.-  It  is  not  meet  the  council  hear  of  a  riot;  there  is  no  fear 
of  Got  in  a  riot;  the  council,  hear  you,  shall  desire  to  hear  the  fear 
of  Got,  and  ziot  to  hear  a  riot;  take  your  vizaments  in  that. 

"  Shallow.  Ha!  o'  my  life,  if  1  were  young  again,  the  sword 
should  end  it!" 

Near  the  window  thus  emblazoned  hung  a  portrait  by 
Sir  Peter  Lely  of  one  of  the  Lucy  family,  a  great  beauty  of 
the  time  of  Charles  the  Second :  the  old  housekeeper  shook 
her  head  as  she  pointed  to  the  picture,  and  informed  me 
that  this  lady  had  been  sadly  addicted  to  cards,  and  had 
gambled  away  a  great  portion  of  the  family  estate,  among 
which  was  that  part  of  the  park  where  Shakspeare  and  his 
comrades  had  killed  the  deer.  The  lands  thus  lost  have 
not  been  entirely  regained  by  the  family,  even  at  the 
present  day.  It  is  but  justice  to  this  recreant  da'me  to  con 
fess  that  she  had  a  surpassingly  fine  hand  and  arm. 

The  picture  which  most  attracted  my  attention  was  a 
great  painting  over  the  fire-place,  containing  likenesses  of 
Sir  Thomas  Lucy  and  his  family,  who  inhabited  the  hall  in 
the  latter  part  of  Shakspeare's  lifetime.  I  at  first  thought 
it  was  the  vindictive  knight  himself,  but  the  housekeeper 
assured  me  that  it  was  his  son;  the  only  likeness  extant  of 
the  former  being  an  effigy  upon  his  tomb  in  the  church  of 
the  neighboring  hamlet  of  Charlecot.  The  picture  gives  a 
lively  idea  of  the  costume  and  manners  of  the  time.  Sir 
Thomas  is  dressed  in  ruff  and  doublet;  white  shoes  with 
roses  in  them;  and  has  a  peaked  yellow,  or,  as  Master 
Slender  would  say,  "a  cane-colored  beard."  His  lady  is 
seated  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  picture  in  wide  ruff  and 
long  stomacher,  and  the  children  have  a  most  venerable 
stiffness  and  formality  of  dress.  Hounds  and  spaniels  are 
mingled  in  the  family  group;  a  hawk  is  seated  on  his  perch 
in  the  foreground,  and  one  of  the  children  holds  a  bow; — 
all  intimating  the  knight's  skill  in  hunting,  hawking,  and 
archery — so  indispensable  to  an  accomplished  gentleman  in 
those  days.* 

*  Bishop  Earle,  speaking  of  the  country  gentleman  of  his  time,  observes, 
"His  housekeeping  is  seen  much  in  the  different  families  of  dogs,  and  serving- 
men  attendant  on  their  kennels;  and  the  deepness  of  their  throats  is  the  depth 
of  iis  discourse.  A  Lawk  he  esteems  tUe  'rue  burden  of  uobility,  and  is  ex- 


244  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

I  regretted  to  find  that  the  ancient  furniture  of  the  hall 
had  disappeared;  for  I  had  hoped  to  meet  with  the  stately 
elbow-chair  of  carved  oak,  in  which  the  country  'Squire  of; 
former  days  was  wont  to  sway  the  sceptre  of  empire  over 
his  rural  domains;  and  in  which  might  be  presumed  the; 
redoubted  Sir  Thomas  sat  enthroned  in  awful  state,  when 
the  recreant  Shakspeare  was  brought  before  him.  As  I  like 
to  deck  out  pictures  for  my  entertainment,  I  pleased  myself 
with  the  idea  that  this  very  hall  had  been  the  scene  of  the? 
unlucky  bard's  examination  on  the  morning  after  his  cap 
tivity  in  the  lodge.  I  fancied  to  myself  the  rural  potentate, 
surrounded  by  his  body-guard  of  butler,  pages,  and  the 
blue-coated  serving-men  with  their  badges;  while  the  luck 
less  culprit  was  brought  in,  forlorn  and  chapfallen,  in  the 
custody  of  game-keepers,  huntsmen,  and  whippers-in,  and 
followed  by  a  rabble  rout  of  country  clowns.  I  fancied 
bright  faces  of  curious  housemaids  peeping  from  the  half- 
opened  doors;  while  from  the  gallery  the  fair  daughters  oi 
the  Knight  leaned  gracefully  forward,  eying  the  youthful 
prisoner  with  that  pity  "that  dwells  in  womanhood." — • 
Who  would  have  thought  that  this  poor  varlet,  thus  tremb 
ling  before  the  brief  authority  of  a  country  'Squire,  and  thd 
sport  of  rustic  boors,  was  soon  to  become  the  delight  of 
princes;  the  theme  of  all  tongues  and  ages;  the  dictator  to 
the  human  mind;  and  was  to  confer  immortality  on  his 
oppressor  by  a  caricature  and  a  lampoon! 

I  was  now  invited  by  the  butler  to  walk  into  the  garden, 
and  I  felt  inclined  to  visit  the  orchard  and  arbor  where  the 
Justice  treated  Sir  John  Falstaff  and  Cousin  Silence  "to  a 
last  year's  pippen  of  his  own  grafting,  with  a  dish  of  carra-i 
ways;"  but  I  had  already  spent  so  much  of  the  day  in  m\ 
rambling,  that  I  was  obliged  to  give  up  any  further  inves 
tigations.  When  about  to  take  my  leave  I  was  gratified  bj 
the  civil  entreaties  of  the  housekeeper  and  butler,  that  1 
would  take  some  refreshment — an  instance  of  good  old  hos 
pitality,  which  I  grieve  to  say  we  castle-hunters  seldoir 
meet  with  in  modern  days.  I  make  no  doubt  it  is  a  virtue 

ceedingly  ambitious  to  seem  dejightod  with  the  sport,  and  have  his  fist  giovet 
with  jessea."    And  (iilpin,  in  his  description  of  a  Mr.  Hastings,  remarks,  "Hi 
kept  all  sorts  of  hounds  that  run,  buck,  fox,  hare,  otter,  anil  badger;  and  liac  I 
hawks  of  all  kinds,  both  long  and  short  winged.    Ills  great  hall  was  common  | 
strewed  with  marrow-bones,  and  full  of  hawk-perches,  hounds,  spaniels,  an< 
terriers.    On  a  broad  hearth,  paved  with  brick,  lay  some  of  the  choicest  ter 
riers,  hounds  and  spaniels." 


8TRA  TFORD-ON-A  VON.  245 

which  the  present  representatives  of  the  Lucys  inherits 
from  his  ancestors;  for  Shakspeare,  even  in  his  caricature, 
makes  Justice  Shallow  importunate  in  this  respect,  as  wit 
ness  his  pressing  instances  to  Falstaff: 

"  By  cock  and  pye,  Sir,  you  shall  not  away  to-night  *  *  *.  I  will 
not  excuse  you;  you  shall  not  be  excused;  excuses  shall  not  be  ad 
mitted;  there  is  no  excuse  shall  serve;  you  shall  not  be  excused  *  *  *. 
Some  pigeons,  Davy;  a  couple  of  short-legged  hens;  a  joint  of  mutton; 
and  any  pretty  little  tiny  kickshaws,  tell  '  William  Cook.'  " 

I  now  bade  a  reluctant  farewell  to  the  old  hall.  My  mind 
had  become  so  completely  possessed  by  the  imaginary  scenes 
and  characters  connected  with  it,  that  I  seemed  to  be  act 
ually  living  among  them.  Everything  brought  them  as  it 
were  before  my  eyes;  and  as  the  door  of  the  dining-room 
opened,  I  almost  expected  to  hear  the  feeble  voice  of  Mas 
ter  Silence  quavering  forth  his  favorite  ditty: 

"  Tis  merry  in  hall,  when  beards  wag  all, 
And  welcome  merry  Shrove-tide!" 

On  returning  to  my  inn,  I  could  not  but  reflect  on  the 
singular  gift  of  rny  poet;  to  be  able  thus  to  spread  the  magic 
of  his  mind  over  the  very  face  of  nature;  to  give  to  things 
and  places  a  charm  and  character  not  their  own,  and  to 
turn  this  "working-day  world"  into  a  perfect  fairy  land. 
He  is  indeed  the  true  enchanter,  whose  spell  operates,  not 
upon  the  senses,  but  upon  the  imagination  and  the  heart. 
Under  the  wizard  influence  of  Shakspeare  I  had  been  walk 
ing  all  day  in  complete  delusion.  I  had  surveyed  the  land 
scape  through  the  prism  of  poetry,  which  tinged  every 
object  with  the  hues  of  the  rainbow.  I  had  been  surrounded 
with  fancied  beings;  with  mere  airy  nothings,  conjured  up 
by  poetic  power;  yet  which,  to  me,  had  all  the  charm  of 
reality.  I  had  heard  Jacques  soliloquize  beneath  his  oak; 
had  beheld  the  fair  Rosalind  and  her  companion  adventur 
ing  through  the  woodlands;  and,  above  all,  had  been  once 
more  present  in  spirit  with  fat  Jack  Falstaff,  and  his  con 
temporaries,  from  the  august  Justice  Shallow  down  to  the 
gentle  Master  Slender,  and  the  sweet  Anne  Page.  Ten 
thousand  honors  and  blessings  on  the  bard  who  has  thus 
gilded  the  dull  realities  of  life  with  innocent  illusions;  who 
has  spread  exquisite  and  unbought  pleasures  in  my  check- 


246  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

ered  path,  and  beguiled  my  spirit  in  many  a  lonely  hour, 
with  all  the  cordial  and  cheerful  sympathies  of  social  life! 

As  I  crossed  the  bridge  over  the  Avon  on  my  return,  II 
paused  to  contemplate  the  distant  church  in  which  the  poet 
lies  buried,  and  could  not  but  exult  in  the  malediction 
which  has  kept  his  ashes  undisturbed  in  its  quiet  and  hal 
lowed  vaults.  What  honor  could  his  name  have  derived: 
from  being  mingled  in  dusty  companionship  with  the  eqi- 
taphs  and  escutcheons  and  venal  eulogiums  of  a  titled  mul 
titude?  What  would  a  crowded  corner  in  Westminster 
Abbey  have  been,  compared  with  this  reverend  pile,  which 
seems  to  stand  in  beautiful  loneliness  as  his  sole  mauso 
leum!  The  solicitude  about  the  grave  may  be  but  the  off 
spring  of  an  overwrought  sensibility;  but  human  nature  is 
made  up  of  foibles  and  prejudices;  and  its  best  and  tender- 
est  affections  are  mingled  with  these  factitious  feelings. 
He  who  has  sought  renown  about  the  world,  and  has  reaped 
a  full  harvest  of  worldly  favor,  will  find,  after  all,  that 
there  is  no  love,  no  admiration,  no  applause,  so  sweet  to 
the  soul  as  that  which  springs  up  in  his  native  place.  It  is 
there  that  he  seeks  to  be  gathered  in  peace  and  honor, 
among  his  kindred  and  his  early  friends.  And  when  the- 
weary  heart  and  failing  head  begin  to  warn  him  that  the 
evening  of  life  is  drawing  on,  he  turns  as  fondly  as  does- 
the  infant  to  the  mother's  arms,  to  sink  to  sleep  in  the 
bosom  of  the  scene  of  his  childhood. 

How  would  it  have  cheered  the  spirit  of  the  youthful 
bard,  when,  wandering  forth  in  disgrace  upon  a  doubtful- 
world,  he  cast  back  a  heavy  look  upon  his  paternal  home,, 
could  he  have  foreseen  that,  before  many  years,  he  should  i 
return  to  it  covered  with  renown;  that  his  name  should  be 
come  the  boast  and  glory  of  his  native  place;  that  his- 
ashes  should  be  religiously  guarded  as  its  most  precious/ 
treasure;  and  that  its  lessening  spire,  on  which  his  eyes 
were  fixed  in  tearful  contemplation,  should  one  day  become 
the  beacon,  towering  amidst  the  gentle  landscape,  to  guide 
the  literary  pilgrim  of  every  nation  to  his  tomb! 


TRAIT8  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER.  247 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER. 

"  I  appeal  to  any  white  man  if  ever  he  entered  Logan's  cabin  nun 
gry,  and  he  gave  him  not  to  eat;  if  ever  he  came  cold  and  naked,  and 
he  clothed  him  not." — Speech  of  an  Indian  Chief. 

THERE  is  something  in  the  character  and  habits  of  the 
North  American  savage,  taken  in  connection  with  the  scen 
ery  over  which  he  is  accustomed  to  range,  its  vast  lakes, 
boundless  forests,  majestic  rivers,  and  trackless  plains,  that . 
is,  to  my  mind,  wonderfully  striking  and  sublime.  He  is 
formed  for  the  wilderness,  as  the  Arab  is  for  the  desert. 
His  nature  is  stern,  simple,,  and  enduring;  fitted  to  grapple 
with  difficulties,  and  to  support  privations.  There  seems 
but  little  soil  in  his  heart  for  the  growth  of  the  kindly  vir 
tues;  and  yet,  if  we  would  but  take  the  trouble  to  penetrate 
through  that  proud  stoicism  and  habitual  taciturnity, 
which  lock  up  his  character  from  casual  observation,  we 
should  find  him  linked  to  his  fellow  man  of  civilized  life 
by  more  of  those  sympathies  and  affections  than  are  usu 
ally  ascribed  to  him. 

It  has  been  the  lot  of  the  unfortunate  aborigines  of  Amer 
ica,  in  the  early  periods  of  colonization,  to  be  doubly  wronged 
by  the  white  men.  They  have  been  dispossessed  of  their 
hereditary  possessions,  by  mercenary  and  frequently  wanton 
warfare;  and  their  characters  have  been  traduced  by  bigoted 
and  interested  writers.  The  colonist  has  of  ten  treated  them 
like  beasts  of  the  forest;  and  the  author  has  endeavored  to 
justify  him  in  his  outrages.  The  former  found  it  easier  to 
exterminate  than  to  civilize — the  latter  to  vilify  than  to  dis 
criminate.  The  appellations  of  savage  and  pagan  were 
deemed  sufficient  to  sanction  the  hostilities  of  both;  and 
thus  the  poor  wanderers  of  the  forest  were  persecuted  and 
defamed,  not  because  they  were  guilty,  but  because  they 
were  ignorant. 

The  rights  of  the  savage  have  seldom  been  properly  ap 
preciated  or  respected  by  the  white  man.  In  peace  he  has 
too  often  been  the  dupe  of  artful  traffic;  in  war,  he  has 


248  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

been  regarded  as  a  ferocious  animal,  whose  life  or  death  was 
a  question  of  mere  precaution  and  convenience.  Man  is 
cruelly  wasteful  of  life  when  his  own  safety  is  endangered, 
und  he  is  sheltered  by  impunity;  and  little  mercy  is  to  be 
expected  from  him  when  he  feels  the  sting  of  the  reptile, 
and  is  conscious  of  the  power  to  destroy. 

The  same  prejudices  which  were  indulged  thus  early,  ex 
ist  in  common  circulation  at  the  present  day.  Certain 
learned  societies  have,  it  is  true,  with  laudable  diligence, 
endeavored  to  investigate  and  record  the  real  characters 
and  manners  of  the  Indian  tribes;  the  American  govern 
ment,  too,  has  wisely  and  humanely  exerted  itself  to  incul 
cate  a  friendly  and  forbearing  spirit  towards  them, 
and  to  protect  them  from  fraud  and  injustice.*  The 
current  opinion  of  the  Indian  character,  however,  is  too 
apt  to  be  formed  from  the  miserable  hordes  which  infest 
the  frontiers,  and  hang  on  to  the  skirts  of  the  settlements. 
These  are  too  commonly  composed  of  degenerate  beings,  cor 
rupted  and  enfeebled  by  the  vices  of  society,  without  being 
benefited  by  its  civilization.  That  proud  independence, 
which  formed  the  main  pillar  of  savage  virtue,  has  been 
shaken  down,  and  the  whole  moral  fabric  lies  in  ruins.  Their 
spirits  are  humiliated  and  debased  by  a  sense  of  in 
feriority,  and  their  native  courage  cowed  and  daunted  by 
the  superior  knowledge  and  power  of  their  enlightened 
neighbors.  Society  has  advanced  upon  them  like  one  of 
those  withering  airs  that  will  sometimes  breathe  desolation 
over  a  whole  region  of  fertility.  It  has  enervated  their 
strength,  multiplied  their  diseases,  and  superinduced  upon 
their  original  barbarity  the  low  vices  of  artificial  life.  It 
has  given  them  a  thousand  superfluous  wants,  whilst  it  has 
diminished  their  means  of  mere  existence.  It  has  driven 
before  it  the  animals  of  the  chase,  who  fly  from  the  sound 
of  the  axe  and  the  smoke  of  the  settlement,  and  seek  refuge 
in  the  depths  of  remoter  forests  and  yet  untrodden  wilds. 
Thus  do  we  too  often  find  the  Indians  on  our  frontiers  to  be 
mere  wrecks  and  remnants  of  once  powerful  tribes,  who 

*  The  American  government  has  been  indefatigable  in  its  exertions  to  meli 
orate  the  situation  of  the  Indians,  and  to  introduce  among  them  the  arts  of 
civilization,  and  civil  and  religious  knowledge.  To  protect  them  from  the 
frauds  of  the  white  traders,  no  purchase  of  land  from  them  by  individuals  is 
permitted;  nor  is  any  person  allowed  to  receive  lands  from  them  as  a  present, 
without  the  express  sanction  of  government.  These  precautions  are  strictly 
enforced. 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER.  249 

have  lingered  in  the  vicinity  of  the  settlements,  and  sunk 
into  precarious  and  vagabond  existence.  Poverty,  repin 
ing  and  hopeless  poverty,  a  canker  of  the  mind  unknown 
in  savage  life,  corrodes  their  spirits  and  blights  every  free 
and  noble  quality  of  their  natures.  They  become  drunken, 
indolent,  feeble,  thievish,  and  pusillanimous.  They  loiter 
like  vagrants  about  the  settlements  among  spacious  dwell 
ings,  replete  with  elaborate  comforts,  which  only  render 
them  sensible  of  the  comparative  wretchedness  of  their  own 
condition.  Luxury  spreads  its  ample  board  before  their 
eyes;  but  they  are  excluded  from  the  banquet.  Plenty 
revels  over  the  fields;  but  they  are  starving  in  the  midst  of 
its  abundance:  the  whole  wilderness  has  blossomed  into  a 
garden;  but  they  feel  as  reptiles  that  infest  it. 

How  different  was  their  state,  while  yet  the  undisputed 
lords  of  the  soil!  Their  wants  were  few,  and  the  means  of 
gratification  within  their  reach.  They  saw  everyone  round 
then  sharing  the  same  lot,  enduring  the  same  hardships, 
feeding  on  the  same  aliments,  arrayed  in  the  same  rude 
garments.  No  roof  then  rose,  but  was  open  to  the  home 
less  stranger;  no  smoke  curled  among  the  trees,  but  he  was 
welcome  to  sit  down  by  its  fire  and  join  the  hunter  in  his 
repast.  "For,"  says  an  old  historian  of  New  England, 
"  their  life  is  so  void  of  care,  and  they  are  so  loving  also,  that 
they  make  use  of  those  things  they  enjoy  as  common,  and  are 
therein  so  compassionate,  that  rather  than  one  should  starve 
through  want,  they  would  starve  all;  thus  do  they  pass 
their  time  merrily,  not  regarding  our  pomp,  but  are  better 
content  with  their  own,  which  some  men  esteem  so  meanly 
of."  Such  were  the  Indians,  whilst  in  the  pride  and  energy 
of  their  primitive  natures;  they  resemble  those  plants  which 
thrive  best  in  the  shades  of  the  forests,  but  shrink  from 
the  hand  of  cultivation,  and  perish  beneath  the  influence 
of  the  sun. 

In  discussing  the  savage  character,  writers  have  been  too 
srone  to  Indulge  in  vulgar  prejudice  and  passionate  exag- 
peration,  instead  of  the  candid  temper  of  true  philosophy. 
They  have  not  sufficiently  considered  the  peculiar  circum- 
gtances  in  which  the  Indians  have  been  placed,  and  the 
peculiar  principles  under  which  they  have  been  educated. 
No  being  acts  more  rigidly  from  rules  than  the  Indian. 
His  whole  conduct  is  regulated  according  to  some  general 


250  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

maxims  early  implanted  in  his  mind.  The  moral  laws 
that  govern  him  are,  to  be  sure,  but  few;  but  then  he  con 
forms  to  them  all; — the  white  man  abounds  in  laws  of  re 
ligion,  morals,  and  manners,  but  how  many  does  he  violate! 

A  frequent  ground  of  accusation  against  the  Indians  is 
their  disregard  of  treaties,  and  the  treachery  and  wanton 
ness  with  which,  in  time  of  apparent  peace,  they  will  sud 
denly  fly  to  hostilities.  The  intercourse  of  the  white  men 
with  the  Indians,  however,  is  too  apt  to  be  cold,  dis 
trustful,  oppressive,  and  insulting.  They  seldom  treat 
them  with  that  confidence  and  frankness  which  are  indis 
pensable  to  real  friendship;  nor  is  sufficient  caution  ob 
served  not  to  offend  against  those  feelings  of  pride  or  super 
stition  which  often  prompt  the  Indian  to  hostility  quicker 
than  mere  considerations  of  interest.  The  solitary  savage 
feels  silently,  but  acutely.  His  sensibilities  are  not  diffused 
over  so  wide  a  surface  as  those  of  the  white  man;  but  they 
rnn  in  steadier  and  deeper  channels.  His  pride,  his  affec 
tions,  his  superstitions,  are  all  directed  towards  fewer  ob 
jects;  but  the  wounds  inflicted  on  them  are  proportionably 
severe,  and  furnish  motives  of  hostility  which  we  cannot 
sufficiently  appreciate.  Where  a  community  is  also  limited 
in  number,  and  forms  one  great  patriarchal  family,  as  in  an 
Indian  tribe,  the  injury  of  an  individual  is  the  injury  of 
the  whole,  and  the  sentiment  of  vengeance  is  almost  instan 
taneously  diffused.  One  council-fire  is  sufficient  for  the 
discussion  and  arrangement  of  a  plan  of  hostilities.  Here 
all  the  fighting  men  and  sages  assemble.  Eloquence  and 
superstition  combine  to  inflame  the  minds  of  the  warriors. 
The  orator  awakens  their  martial  ardor,  and  they  are 
wrought  up  to  a  kind  of  religious  desperation,  by  the 
visions  of  the  prophet  and  the  dreamer. 

An  instance  of  one  of  those  sudden  exasperations,  arising 
from  a  motive  peculiar  to  the  Indian  character,  is  extant  in 
an  old  record  of  the  early  settlement  of  Massachusetts. 
The  planters  of  Plymouth  had  defaced  the  monuments  of 
the  dead  at"  Passonagessit,  and  had  plundered  the  grave  of 
the  Sachem's  mothei  of  some  skins  with  which  it  had  been 
decorated.  The  Indians  are  remarkable  for  the  reverence 
which  they  entertain  for  the  sepulchres  of  their  kindred. 
Tribes  that  have  passed  generations  exiled  from  the  abodes 
of  their  ancestors,  when  by  chance  they  have  been  travel- 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER.  251 

ling  in  the  vicinity,  have  been  known  to  turn  aside  from 
the  highway,  and,  guided  by  wonderfully  accurate  tradition, 
have  crossed  the  country  for  miles  to  some  tumulus,  buried 
perhaps  in  woods,  where  the  bones  of  their  tribe  were 
anciently  deposited,  and  there  have  passed  hours  in  silent 
meditation.  Influenced  by  this  sublime  and  holy  feeling, 
the  Sachem,  whose  mother's  tomb  had  been  violated,  gath 
ered  his  men  together,  and  addressed  them  in  the  following 
beautifully  simple  and  pathetic  harangue;  a  curious  speci 
men  of  Indian  eloquence,  and  an  affecting  instance  of  filial 
piety  in  a  savage: 

"  When  last  the  glorious  light  of  all  the  sky  was  under 
neath  this  globe,  and  birds  grew  silent,  I  began  to  settle, 
as  my  custom  is,  to  take  repose.  Before  mine  eyes  were 
fast  closed,  methought  I  saw  a  vision,  at  which  my  spirit 
was  much  troubled;  and  trembling  at  that  doleful  sight,  a 
spirit  cried  aloud,  'Behold,  my  son,  whom  I  have  cher 
ished,  see  the  breasts  that  gave  thee  suck,  the  hands  that 
lapped  thee  warm,  and  fed  thee  oft.  Canst  thou  forget  to 
take  revenge  of  those  wild  people,  who  have  defaced  my 
monument  in  a  despiteful  manner,  disdaining  our  antiquity 
and  honorable  customs?  See,  now,  the  Sachem's  grave  lies 
like  the  common  people,  defaced  by  an  ignoble  race.  Thy 
mother  doth  complain,  and  implores  thy  aid  against  this 
thievish  people,  who  have  newly  intruded  on  our  land.  If 
this  be  suffered,  I  shall  not  rest  quiet  in  my  everlasting 
habitation.'  This  said,  the  spirit  vanished,  and  I,  all  in  a 
sweat,  not  able  scarce  to  speak,  began  to  get  some  strength, 
and  re-collected  my  spirits  that  were  fled,  and  determined  to 
demand  your  counsel  and  assistance." 

I  have  adduced  this  anecdote  at  some  length,  as  it  tends 
to  show  how  these  sudden  acts  of  hostility,  which  have 
been  attributed  to  caprice  and  perfidy,  may  often  arise 
from  deep  and  generous  motives,  which  our  inattention  to 
Indian  character  and  customs  prevent  our  properly  appre 
ciating. 

Another  ground  of  violent  outcry  against  the  Indians,  is 
their  barbarity  to  the  vanquished.  This  had  its  origin 
partly  in  policy  and  partly  in  superstition.  The  tribes, 
though  sometimes  called  nations,  were  never  so  formidable 
in  their  number,  but  that  the  loss  of  several  warriors  was 
sensibly  felt;  this  was  particularly  the  case  when  they  had 


252  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

been  frequently  engaged  in  warfare;  and  many  an  instance 
occurs  in  Indian  history,  where  a  tribe,  that  had  long  been 
formidable  to  its  neighbors,  has  been  broken  up  and  driven 
away,  by  the  capture  and  massacre  of  its  principal  fighting 
men.  There  was  a  strong  temptation,  therefore,  to  the 
victor  to  be  merciless;  not  so  much  to  gratify  any  cruel 
revenge,  as  to  provide  for  future  security.  The  Indiana 
had  also  the  superstitious  belief,  frequent  among  barbarous 
nations,  and  prevalent  also  among  the  ancients,  that  the 
manes  of  their  friends,  who  had  fallen  in  battle,  were 
soothed  by  the  blood  of  the  captives.  The  prisoners,  how 
ever,  who  are  not  thus  sacrificed,  are  adopted  into  their 
families  in  the  place  of  the  slain,  and  are  treated  with  the 
confidence  and  affection  of  relatives  and  friends;  nay,  so 
hospitable  and  tender  is  their  entertainment,  that  when  the 
alternative  is  offered  them,  they  will  often  prefer  to  remain 
with  their  adopted  brethren,  rather,  than  return  to  the 
home  and  the  friends  of  their  youth. 

The  cruelty  of  the  Indians  towards  their  prisoners  has 
been  heightened  since  the  colonization  of  the  whites. 
What  was  formerly  a  compliance  with  policy  and  super 
stition,  has  been  exasperated  into  a  gratification  of  ven 
geance.  They  cannot  but  be  sensible  that  the  white  men 
are  the  usurpers  of  their  ancient  dominion,  the  cause  of 
their  degradation,  and  the  gradual  destroyers  of  their  race. 
They  go  forth  to  battle,  smarting  with  injuries  and  indig 
nities  which  they  have  individually  suffered,  and  they  are 
driven  to  madness  and  despair  by  the  wide-spreading  deso 
lation,  and  the  overwhelming  ruin  of  European  warfare. 
The  whites  have  too  frequently  set  them  an  example  of 
violence,  by  burning  their  villages  and  laying  waste  their 
slender  means  of  subsistence;  and  yet  they  wonder  that 
savages  do  not  show  moderation  and  magnanimity  towards 
those  who  have  left  them  nothing  but  mere  existence  and 
wretchedness. 

We  stigmatize  the  Indians,  also,  as  cowardly  and  treacher 
ous,  because  they  use  stratagem  in  warfare,  in  preference  to 
open  force;  but  in  this  they  are  fully  justified  by  their  rude 
code  of  honor.  They  are  early  taught  that  stratagem  is 
praiseworthy;  the  bravest  warrior  thinks  it  no  disgrace  to 
lurk  in  silence,  and  take  every  advantage  of  his  foe;  he 
triumphs  in  the  superior  craft  and  sagacity  by  which  he 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHA  EA CTER.  253 

IRS  been  enabled  to  surprise  and  destroy  an  enemy.  In- 
leed,  man  is  naturally  more  prone  to  subtility  than  open 
.ralor,  owing  to  his  physical  weakness  in  comparison  with 
)ther  animals.  They  are  endowed  with  natural  weapons 
jf  defence:  with  horns,  with  tusks,  with  hoofs,  and  talons; 
ant  man  has  to  depend  on  his  superior  sagacity.  In  all 
lis  encounters  with  these,  his  proper  enemies,  he  resorts  to 
stratagem:  and  when  he  perversely  turns  his  hostility 
against  his  fellow  man,  he  at  first  continues  the  same 
subtle  mode  of  warfare. 

The  natural  principle  of  war  is  to  do  the  most  harm  to 
our  enemy,  with  the  least  harm  to  ourselves:  and  this  of 
course  is  to  be  effected  by  stratagem.  That  chivalrous 
courage  which  induces  us  to  despise  the  suggestions  of 
prudence  and  to  rush  in  the  face  of  certain  danger,  is  the 
)ff  spring  of  society,  and  produced  by  education.  It  is 
honorable,  because  it  is  in  fact  the  triumph  of  lofty  senti 
ment  over  an  instinctive  repugnance  to  pain,  and  over 
;hose  yearnings  after  personal  ease  and  security,  which 
society  has  condemned  as  ignoble.  It  is  kept  alive  by 
pride  and  the  fear  of  shame;  and  thus  the  dread  of  real 
3vil  is  overcome  by  the  superior  dread  of  an  evil  which 
sxists  but  in  the  imagination.  It  has  been  cherished  and 
stimulated  also  by  various  means.  It  has  been  the  theme 
of  spirit-stirring  song  and  chivalrous  story.  The  poet  and 
minstrel  have  delighted  to  shed  round  it  the  splendors  of 
of  fiction;  and  even  the  historian  has  forgotten  the  sober 
gravity  of  narration,  and  broken  forth  into  enthusiasm  and 
rhapsody  in  its  praise.  Triumphs  and  gorgeous  pageants 
have  been  its  reward;  monuments,  on  which  art  has  ex 
hausted  its  skill,  and  opulence  its  treasures,  have  been 
erected  to  perpetuate  a  nation's  gratitude  and  admiration. 
Thus  artificially  excited  courage  has  risen  to  an  extra 
ordinary  and  factitious  degree  of  heroism;  and,  arrayed  in 
all  the  glorious  "pomp  and  circumstance  of  war,"  this 
turbulent  quality  has  even  been  able  to  eclipse  many  of 
those  quiet,  but  invaluable  virtues,  which  silently  ennoble 
the  human  character,  and  swell  the  tide  of  human  happi 
ness. 

But  if  courage  intrinsically  consists  in  the  defiance  of 
danger  and  pain,  the  life  of  the  Indian  is  a  continual  exhi 
bition  of  it.  He  lives  in  a  state  of  perpetual  hostility  and 


254  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

risk.  Peril  and  adventure  are  congenial  to  his  nature:  o 
rather  seem  necessary  to  arouse  his  faculties  and  to  give  ai 
interest  to  his  existence.  Surrounded  by  hostile  tribes 
whose  mode  of  warfare  is  by  ambush  and  surprisal,  he  i 
always  prepared  for  light,  and  lives  with  his  weapons  ii 
his  hands.  As  the  ship  careers  in  fearful  singlenes 
through  the  solitudes  of  ocean, — as  the  bird  mingle 
among  clouds  and  storms,  and  wings  its  way,  a  mere  speck 
across  the  pathless  fields  of  air;  so  the  Indian  holds  hi 
course,  silent,  solitary,  but  undaunted,  through  the  bound 
less  bosom  of  the  wilderness.  His  expeditious  may  vie  ii 
distance  and  danger  with  the  pilgrimage  of  the  devoted,  o 
the  crusades  of  the  knight-errant.  He  traverses  vas 
forests,  exposed  to  the  hazards  of  lonely  sickness,  of  lurk 
ing  enemies,  and  pining  famine.  Stormy  lakes,  thos< 
great  inland  seas,  are  no  obstacles  to  his  wanderings;  in  hi 
light  canoe  of  bark,  he  sports  like  a  feather  on  their  waves 
and  darts  with  the  swiftness  of  an  arrow  down  the  roarinj 
rapids  of  the  rivers.  His  very  subsistence  is  snatched  fron 
the  midst  of  toil  and  peril.  He  gains  his  food  by  tin 
hardships  and  dangers  of  the  chase;  he  wraps  himself  ii 
the  spoils  of  the  bear,  the  panther,  and  the  buffalo;  am 
sleeps  among  the  thunders  of  the  cataract. 

No  hero  of  ancient  or  modern  days  can  surpass  the  In 
dian  in  his  lofty  contempt  of  death,  and  the  fortitude  witl 
which  he  sustains  its  cruelest  affliction.  Indeed,  we  hen 
behold  him  rising  superior  to  the  white  man,  in  conse 
quence  of  his  peculiar  education.  The  latter  rushes  t< 
glorious  death  at  the  cannon's  mouth;  the  former  calml; 
contemplates  its  approach,  and  triumphantly  endures  it 
amidst  the  varied  torments  of  surrounding  foes,  and  tin 
protracted  agonies  of  fire.  He  even  takes  a  pride  ii 
taunting  his  persecutors,  and  provoking  their  ingenuity  o 
torture;  and  as  the  devouring  flames  prey  on  his  ver 
vitals,  and  the  flesh  shrinks  from  the  sinews,  he  raises  hii 
song  of  triumph,  breathing  the  defiance  of  an  unconquerec 
heart,  and  invoking  the  spirits  of  his  fathers  to  witnesi 
that  he  dies  without  a  groan. 

Notwithstanding  the  obloquy  with  which  the  early  histo 
rians  have  overshadowed  the  characters  of  the  unfortunat< 
natives,  some  bright  gleams  occasionally  break  through 
which  throw  a  degree  of  melancholy  lustre  on  their  mem 


255 

)ries.  Facts  are  occasionally  to  be  met  with  in  the  rude 
innals  of  the  eastern  provinces,  which,  though  recorded 
with  the  coloring  of  prejudice  and  bigotry,  yet  speak  for 
themselves,  and  will  be  dwelt  on  with  applause  and  sym 
pathy  when  prejudice  shall  have  passed  away. 

In  one  of  the  homely  narratives  of  the  Indian  wars  in 
New  England,  there  is  a  touching  account  of  the  desolation 
;arried  into  the  tribe  ot  the  Pequod  Indians.  Humanity 
shrinks  from  the  cold-blooded  detail  of  indiscriminate 
butchery.  In  one  place  we  read  of  the  surprisal  of  an  In 
dian  fort  in  the  night,  when  the  wigwams  were  wrapt  in 
flames,  and  the  miserable  inhabitants  shot  down  and  slain  in 
attempting  to  escape,  ''  all  being  despatched  and  ended  in 
the  course  of  an  hour."  After  a  series  of  similar  transac 
tions,  "our  soldiers,"  as  the  historian  piously  observes, 
"  being  resolved  by  God's  assistance  to  make  a  final  de 
struction  of  them,"  the  unhappy  savages  being  hunted 
from  their  homes  and  fortresses,  and  pursued  with  fire  and 
sword,  a  scanty  but  gallant  band,  the  sad  remnant  of  the 
Pequod  warriors,  with  their  wives  and  children,  took  refuge 
in  a  swamp. 

Burning  with  indignation,  and  rendered  sullen  by  des 
pair;  with  hearts  bursting  with  grief  at  the  destruction  of 
their  tribe,  and  spirits  galled  and  sore  at  the  fancied  ig 
nominy  of  their  defeat,  they  refused  to  ask  their  lives  at  the 
hands  of  an  insulting  foe,  and  preferred  death  to  submis 
sion. 

As  the  night  drew  on,  they  were  surrounded  in  their  dis 
mal  retreat,  so  as  to  render  escape  impracticable.  Thus 
situated,  their  enemy  "plied  them  with  shot  all  the  time, 
by  which  means  many  were  killed  and  buried  in  the  mire." 
In  the  darkness  and  fog  that  preceded  the  dawn  of  day, 
some  few  broke  through  the  besiegers  and  escaped  into  the 
woods:  "the  rest  were  left  to  the  conquerors,  of  which 
many  were  killed  in  the  swamp,  like  sullen  dogs  who  would 
rather,  in  their  self-willedness  and  madness,  sit  still  and  be 
shot  through,  or  cut  to  pieces,"  than  implore  for  mercy. 
When  the  day  broke  upon  this  handful  of  forlorn  but 
dauntless  spirits,  the  soldiers,  we  are  told,  entering  the 
swamp,  "saw  several  heaps  of  them  sitting  close  together, 
upon  whom  they  discharged  their  pieces,  laden  with  ten  or 
twelve  pistol-bullets  at  a  time;  putting  the  muzzles  of  the 


256  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

pieces  under  the  boughs,  within  a  few  yards  of  them;  so 
as,  besides  those  that  were  found  dead,  many  more  were 
killed  and  sunk  into  the  mire,  and  never  were  minded  more 
by  friend  or  foe." 

Can  anyone  read  this  plain  unvarnished  tale,  without  ad 
miring  the  stern  resolution,  the  unbending  pride,  the  lofti 
ness  of  spirit,  that  seemed  to  nerve  the  hearts  of  these  self- 
taught  heroes,  and  to  raise  them  above  the  instinctive  feel 
ings  of  human  nature?  When  the  Gauls  laid  waste  the 
city  of  Rome,  they  found  the  senators  clothed  in  their 
robes  and  seated  with  stern  tranquility  in  their  curule 
chairs;  in  this  manner  they  suffered  death  without  resist 
ance  or  even  supplication.  Such  conduct  was,  in  them, 
applauded  as  noble  and  magnanimous — in  the  hapless  In 
dians,  it  was  reviled  as  obstinate  and  sullen.  How  truly 
are  we  the  dupes  of  show  and  circumstance!  How  differ 
ent  is  virtue  clothed  in  purple  and  enthroned  in  state, 
from  virtue  naked  and  destitute,  and  perishing  obscurely  in 
a  wilderness! 

But  I  forbear  to  dwell  on  these  gloomy  pictures.  The 
eastern  tribes  have  long  since  disappeared;  the  forests  that 
sheltered  them  have  been  laid  low,  and  scarce  any  traces  re 
main  of  them  in  the  thickly-settled  States  of  New  England, 
excepting  here  and  there  the  Indian  name  of  a  village  or  a 
stream.  And  such  must  sooner  or  later  be  the  fate  of  those 
other  tribes  which  skirt  the  frontiers,  and  have  occasion 
ally  been  inveigled  from  their  forests  to  mingle  in  the  wars 
of  white  men.  In  a  little  while,  and  they  will  go  the  waj 
that  their  brethren  have  gone  before.  The  few  hord 
which  still  linger  about  the  shores  of  Huron  and  Superior, 
and  the  tributary  streams  of  the  Mississippi,  will  share  the 
fate  of  those  tribes  that  once  spread  over  Massachusetts 
and  Connecticut,  and  lorded  it  along  the  proud  banks  of 
the  Hudson;  of  that  gigantic  race  said  to  have  existed  or 
the  borders  of  the  Susquehanna;  and  of  those  various 
nations  that  flourished  about  the  Potomac  and  the  Rappa- 
hannock,  and  that  peopled  the  forests  of  the  vast  valley  of  tin 
Shenandoah.  They  will  vanish  like  a  vapor  from  the  i';ic( 
of  the  earth;  their  very  history  will  be  lost  in  forgetfulness 
and  "the  places  that  now  know  them  will  know  them  IK 
more  forever."  Or  if,  perchance,  some  dubious  memoria' 
of  them  should  survive,  it  may  be  in  the  romantic  dreamt 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER.  257 

of  the  poet,  to  people  in  imagination  his  glades  and  groves, 
like  the  fauns  and  satyrs  and  sylvan  deities  of  antiquity. 
But  should  he  venture  upon  the  dark  story  of  their  wrongs 
and  wretchedness;  should  he  tell  how  they  were  invaded, 
corrupted,  despoiled;  driven  from  their  native  abodes  and 
the  sepulchres  of  their  fathers;  hunted  like  wild  beasts 
about  the  earth;  and  sent  down  with  violence  and  butchery 
to  the  grave — posterity  will  either  turn  with  horror  and  in 
credulity  from  the  tale,  or  blush  with  indignation  at  the 
inhumanity  of  their  forefathers. — "We  are  driven  back/' 
said  an  old  warrior,  "  until  we  can  retreat  no  farther — our 
hatchets  are  broken,  our  bows  are  snapped,  our  fires  are 
nearly  extinguished — a  little  longer  and  the  white  man  will 
sease  to  persecute  us — for  we  shall  cease  to  exist." 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET. 

AN   INDIAN   MEMOIE. 


As  monumental  bronze  unchanged  his  lo«k: 
A  soul,  that  pity  touch'd,  but  never  shook; 
Train'd,  from  his  tree-rock'd  cradle  to  his  bier, 
The  fierce  extremes  of  good  and  ill  to  brook 
Impassive  —  fearing  but  the  shame  of  fear  — 
A  stoic  of  the  woods  —  a  man  without  a  tear. 

CAMPBELL. 

IT  is  to  be  regretted  that  those  early  writers  who  treated 
of  the  discovery  and  settlement  of  America,  have  not  given 
us  more  particular  and  candid  accounts  of  the  remark 
able  characters  that  flourished  in  savage  life.  The  scanty 
anecdotes  which  have  reached  us  are  full  of  peculiarity  and 
interest;  they  furnish  us  with  nearer  glimpses  of  human 
nature,  and  show  what  man  is  in  a  comparatively  primitive 
state,  and  what  he  owes  (o  civilization.  There  is  some 
thing  of  the  charm  of  discovery  in  lighting  upon  these 
wild  and  unexplored  tracts  of  human  nature;  in  witnessing, 
as  it  were,  the  native  growth  of  moral  sentiment;  and  per 
ceiving  those  generous  and  romantic  qualities  which  have 
been  artificially  cultivated  by  society,  vegetating  in  sponta 
neous  hardihood  and  rude  magnificence. 

In  civilized  life,  where  the  happiness,  and  indeed  almost 
the  existence,  of  man  depends  so  much  upon  the  opinion  of 
his  fellow  men,  he  is  constantly  acting  a  studied  part. 
The  bold  and  peculiar  traits  of  native  character  are  refined 
away,  or  softened  down  by  the  leveling  influence  of  what  is 
termed  good  breeding;  and  he  practices  so  many  petty  de 
ceptions,  and  affects  so  many  generous  sentiments,  for  the 
purposes  of  popularity,  that  it  is  difficult  to  distinguish 
his  real  from  his  artificial  character.  The  Indian,  on  the 
contrary,  free  from  the  restraints  and  refinements  of  pol 
ished  life,  and  in  a  great  degree  a  solitary  and  independent 
being,  obeys  the  impulses  of  his  inclination  or  the  dictates 
of  his  judgment;  and  thus  the  attributes  of  his  nature, 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOEET.  259 

being  freely  indulged,  grow  singly  great  and  striking. 
Society  is  like  a  lawn,  where  every  roughness  is  smoothed, 
every  bramble  eradicated,  and  where  the  eye  is  delighted  by 
the  smiling  verdure  of  a  velvet  surface;  he,  however,  who 
would  study  Nature  in  its  wildness  and  variety,  must 
plunge  into  the  forest,  must  explore  the  glen,  must  stem 
the  torrent  and  dare  the  precipice. 

These  reflections  arose  on  casually  looking  through  a  vol 
ume  of  early  colonial  history  wherein  are  recorded,  with 
great  bitterness,  the  outrages  of  the  Indians,  and  their  wars 
with  the  settlers  of  New  England.  It  is  painful  to  perceive, 
even  from  these  partial  narratives,  how  the  footsteps  of 
civilization  may  be  traced  in  the  blood  of  the  aborigines; 
how  easily  the  colonists  were  moved  to  hostility  by  the  hist 
of  conquest;  how  merciless  and  exterminating  was  their 
warfare.  The  imagination  shrinks  at  the  idea,  how  many 
intellectual  beings  were  hunted  from  the  earth — how  many 
brave  and  noble  hearts,  of  Nature's  sterling  coinage,  were 
broken  down  and  trampled  in  the  dust! 

Such  was  the  fate  of  PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET,  an  Indian 
warrior,  whose  name  was  once  a  terror  throughout  Massa 
chusetts  and  Connecticut.  He  was  the  most  distinguished 
of  a  number  of  cotemporary  Sachems  who  reigned  over  the 
Pequods,  the  Narragansetts,  the  Warnpanoags,  and  the 
other  eastern  tribes,  at  the  time  of  the  tirst  settlement  of 
New  England:  a  band  of  native  untaught  heroes,  who 
made  the  most  generous  struggle  of  which  human  nature 
is  capable;  fighting  to  the  last  gasp  in  the  cause  of  their 
country,  without  a  hope  of  victory  or  a  thought  of  renown. 
Worthy  of  an  age  of  poetry,  and  fit  subjects  for  local  story 
and  romantic  fiction,  they  have  left  scarcely  any  authentic 
traces  on  the  page  of  history,  but  stalk  like  gigantic  shad 
ows,  in  the  dim  twilight  of  tradition.* 

When  the  pilgrims,  as  the  Plymouth  settlers  are  called  by 
their  descendants,  first  took  refuge  on  the  shores  of  the 
New  World,  from  the  religious  persecutions  of  the  Old, 
their  situation  was  to  the  last  degree  gloomy  and  disheart 
ening.  Few  in  number,  and  that  number  rapidly  perishing 
away  through  sickness  and  hardships;  surrounded  by  a 
howling  wilderness  and  savage  tribes;  exposed  to  the  rigors 

*  While  correcting  the  proof-sheets  of  this  article,  the  author  is  informed 
that  a  celebrated  English  poet  has  nearly  finished  a  heroic  poem  on  the  story 
Of  Philip  of  Pokanoket. 


260  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

of  an  almost  arctic  winter,  and  the  vicissitudes  of  an  ever- 
shifting  climate;  their  minds  were  filled  with  doleful  fore 
bodings,  and  nothing  preserved  them  from  sinking  into 
despondency  but  the  strong  excitement  of  religious  enthu 
siasm.  In  this  forlorn  situation  they  were  visited  by  Mas- 
sasoit,  chief  Sagamore  of  the  Wampanoags,  a  powerful 
chief,  who  reigned  over  a  great  extent  of  country.  Instead 
of  taking  advantage  of  the  scanty  number  of  the  strangers, 
and  expelling  them  from  his  territories  into  which  they 
had  intruded,  he  seemed  at  once  to  conceive  for  them  a 
generous  friendship,  and  extended  towards  them  the  rites 
of  primitive  hospitality.  He  came  early  in  the  spring  to 
their  settlement  of  New  Plymouth,  attended  by  a  mere 
handful  of  followers;  entered  into  a  solemn  league  of  peace 
and  amity;  sold  them  a  portion  of  the  soil,  and  promised 
to  secure  for  them  the  good-will  of  his  savage  allies. 
Whatever  may  be  said  of  Indian  perfidy,  it  is  certain 
that  the  integrity  and  good  faith  of  Massasoit  have  never 
been  impeached.  He  continued  a  firm  and  magnanimous 
friend  of  the  white  men;  suffering  them  to  extend  their 
possessions,  and  to  strengthen  themselves  in  the  land;  and 
betraying  no  jealousy  of  their  increasing  power  and  pros 
perity.  Shortly  before  his  death,  he  came  once  more  to 
New  Plymouth,  with  his  son  Alexander,  for  the  purpose  of 
renewing  the  covenant  of  peace,  and  securing  it  to  his  pos 
terity. 

At  this  conference,  he  endeavored  to  protect  the  religion 
of  his  forefathers  from  the  encroaching  zeal  of  the  mission 
aries,  and  stipulated  that  no  farther  attempt  should  be 
made  to  draw  off  his  people  from  their  ancient  faith;  but, 
finding  the  English  obstinately  opposed  to  any  such  condi 
tion,  he  mildly  relinquished  the  demand.  Almost  the  lasti 
act  of  his  life  was  to  bring  his  two  sons,  Alexander  and'i 
Philip  (as  they  had  been  named  by  the  English)  to  the  resi 
dence  of  a  principal  settler,  recommending  mutual  kind 
ness  and  confidence;  and  entreating  that  the  same  love  and 
amity  which  had  existed  between  the  white  men  and  him 
self,  might  be  continued  afterwards  with  his  children. 
The  good  old  Sachem  died  in  peace,  and  was  happily  gath 
ered  to  his  fathers  before  sorrow  came  upon  his  tribe;  his 
children  remained  behind  to  experience  the  ingratitude  of 
white  men. 


PHILIP  OP  POKANOKET.  261 

His  eldest  son,  Alexander,  succeeded  him.  He  was  of  a 
quick  and  impetuous  temper,  and  proudly  tenacious  of  his 
hereditary  rights  and  dignity.  The  intrusive  policy  and 
dictatorial  conduct  of  the  strangers  excited  his  indignation; 
and  he  beheld  with  uneasiness  their  exterminating  wars 
with  the  neighboring  tribes.  He  was  doomed  soon  to  in 
cur  their  hostility,  being  accused  of  plotting  with  the  Nar- 
ragansetts  to  rise  against  the  English  and  drive  them  from 
the  land.  It  is  impossible  to  say  whether  this  accusation 
was  warranted  by  facts,  or  was  grounded  on  mere  suspi 
cions.  It  is  evident,  however,  by  the  violent  and  overbear 
ing  measures  of  the  settlers,  that  they  had  by  this  time  be 
gun  to  feel  conscious  of  the  rapid  increase  of  their  power, 
and  to  grow  harsh  and  inconsiderate  in  their  treatment  of 
the  natives.  They  despatched  an  armed  force  to  seize 
upon  Alexander,  and  to  bring  him  before  their  court.  He 
was  traced  to  his  woodland  haunts,  and  surprised  at  a  hunt 
ing  house,  where  he  was  reposing  with  a  band  of  his  follow 
ers,  unarmed,  after  the  toils  of  the  chase.  The  suddenness 
of  his  arrest,  and  the  outrage  offered  to  his  sovereign  dig 
nity,  so  preyed  upon  the  irascible  feelings  of  the  proud  sav 
age,  as  to  throw  him  into  a  raging  fever;  he  was  permitted 
to  return  home  on  condition  of  sending  his  son  as  a  pledge 
for  his  reappearance;  but  the  blow  he  had  received  was 
fatal,  and  before  he  reached  his  home  he  fell  a  victim  to 
the  agonies  of  a  wounded  spirit. 

The  successor  of  Alexander  was  Pometacom,  or  King 
Philip,  as  he  was  called  by  the  settlers,  on  account  of  his 
lofty  spirit  and  ambitious  temper.  These,  together  with 
his  well-known  energy  and  enterprise,  had  rendered  him 
an  object  of  great  jealousy  and  apprehension,  and  he  was 
accused  of  having  always  cherished  a  secret  and  implacable 
hostility  towards  the  whites.  Such  may  very  probably,  and 
very  naturally,  have  been  the  case.  He  considered  them  as 
originally  but  mere  intruders  into  the  country,  who  had 
presumed  upon  indulgence,  and  were  extending  an  influence 
baneful  to  savage  life.  He  saw  the  whole  race  of  his  coun 
trymen  melting  before  them  from  the  face  of  the  earth; 
their  territories  slipping  from  their  hands,  and  their  tribes 
becoming  feeble,  scattered,  and  dependent.  It  may  be  said 
that  the  soil  was  originally  purchased  oy  the  settlers;  but 
Who  does  not  know  the  nature  of  Indian  purchases,  in  the 


262  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

early  periods  of  colonization  ?   The  Europeans  always  made  ; 
thrifty  bargains,  through  their  superior  adroitness  in  traffic;  : 
and  they  gained  vast  accessions  of  territory,  by  easily-pro- < 
voked  hostilities.     An  uncultivated  savage  is  never  a  nice 
inquirer  into  the  refinements  of  law,  by  which  an  injury  ' 
may  be  gradually  and  legally  inflicted.     Leading  facts  are 
all  by  which  he  judges;  and  it  was  enough  for  Philip  to 
know,  that  before  the  intrusions  of  the  Europeans  his  coun 
trymen  were  lords  of  the  soil,  and  that  now  they  were  be 
coming  vagabonds  in  the  land  of  their  fathers. 

But  whatever  may  have  been  his  feelings  of  general  hos 
tility,  and  his  particular  indignation  at  the  treatment  ofj 
his  brother,  he  suppressed  them  for  the  present;  renewed; 
the  contract  with  the  settlers;  and  resided  peaceably  for 
many  years  at  Pokanoket,  or  as  it  was  called  by  the  Eng 
lish,  Mount  Hope,*  the  ancient  seat  of  dominion  of  his 
tribe.  Suspicions,  however,  which  were  at  first  but  vague 
and  indefinite,  began  to  acquire  form  and  substance;  and 
he  was  at  length  charged  with  attempting  io  instigate  the 
various  eastern  tribes  to  rise  at  once,  and,  by  a  simultaneous' 
effort,  to  throw  off  the  yoke  of  their  oppressors.  It  is  diffi 
cult  at  this  distant  period  to  assign  the  proper  credit  dud 
to  these  early  accusations  against  the  Indians.  There  was 
a  proiieness  to  suspicion,  and  an  aptness  to  acts  of  violence; 
on  the  part  of  the  whites,  that  gave  weight  and  importance 
to  every  idle  tale.  Informers  abounded,  where  tale-bearing; 
met  with  countenance  and  reward;  and  the  sword  was] 
readily  unsheathed,  when  its  success  was  certain,  and  it 
carved  out  empire. 

The  only  positive  evidence  on  record  against  Philip  is  the; 
accusation  of  one  Sausaman,  a  renegade  Indian,  whose' 
natural  cunning  had  been  quickened  by  a  partial  education") 
which  he  had  received  among  the  settlers.  He  changed  liisj 
faith  and  allegiance  two  or  three  times  with  a  facility  that! 
evinced  the  looseness  of  his  principles.  He  had  acted  for  soinei 
time  as  Philip's  confidential  secretary  and  counsellor,  andi 
had  enjoyed  his  bounty  and  protection.  Finding,  however,'( 
that  the  clouds  of  adversity  were  gathering  round  hist 
patron,  he  abandoned  his  service  and  went  over  to  the* 
whites;  and,  in  order  to  gain  their  favor,  charged  his* 
former  benefactor  with  plotting  against  their  safety.  A. 

*  Kow  Bristol,  Rhode  Island. 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  263 

rigorous  investigation  took  place.  Philip  and  several  of  his 
subjects  submitted  to  be  examined,  but  nothing  was  proved 
against  them.  The  settlers,  however,  had  now  gone  too 
far  to  retract;  they  had  previously  determined  that  Philip 
was  a  dangerous  neighbor;  they  had  previously  evinced  their 
distrust,  and  had  done  enough  to  insure  his  hostility:  ac 
cording,  therefore,  to  the  usual  mode  of  reasoning  in 
these  cases,  his  destruction  had  become  necessary  to  their 
security.  Sausarnan,  the  treacherous  informer,  was  shortly 
after  found  dead  in  a  pond,  having  fallen  a  victim  to  the 
vengeance  of  his  tribe.  Three  Indians,  one  of  whom  was 
a  friend  and  counsellor  of  Philip,  were  apprehended  and 
tried,  and,  on  the  testimony  of  one  very  questionable  wit 
ness,  were  condemned  and  executed  as  murderers. 

This  treatment  of  his  subjects  and  ignominious  punish 
ment  of  his  friend  outraged  the  pride  and  exasperated  the 
passions  of  Philip.  The  bolt  which  had  fallen  thus  at  his 
very  feet  awakened  him  to  the  gathering  storm,  and  he  de 
termined  to  trust  himself  no  longer  in  the  power  of  the 
white  men.  The  fate  of  his  insulted  and  broken-hearted 
brother  still  rankled  in  his  mind;  and  he  had  a  farther 
warning  in  the  tragical  story  of  Miantonomoh,  a  great 
Sachem  of  the  Narragansetts,  who,  after  manfully  facing 
his  accusers  before  a  tribunal  of  the  colonists,  exculpating 
himself  from  a  charge  of  conspiracy,  and  receiving  assur 
ances  of  amity,  had  been  perfidiously  despatched  at  their 
instigation.  Philip,  therefore,  gathered  his  fighting  men 
about  him;  persuaded  all  strangers  that  he  could  to  join  his 
cause;  sent  the  women  and  children  to  the  Narragansetts 
for  safety;  and  wherever  he  appeared,  was  continually  sur 
rounded  by  armed  warriors. 

When  the  two  parties  were  thus  in  a  state  of  distrust  and 
irritation,  the  least  spark  was  sufficient  to  set  them  in  a 
flame.  The  Indians,  having  weapons  in  their  hands,  grew 
mischievous,  and  committed  various  petty  depredations. 
In  one  of  their  maraudings,  a  warrior  was  fired  upon  and 
killed  by  a  settler.  This  was  the  signal  for  open  hostilities; 
the  Indians  pressed  to  revenge  the  death  of  their  com 
rade,  and  the  alarm  of  war  resounded  through  the  Ply 
mouth  colony. 

In  the  early  chronicles  of  these  dark  and  melancholy 
times,  we  meet  with  many  indications  of  the  diseased  state 


264  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

of  the  public  mind.     The  gloom  of  religious  abstraction, 
and  the  wildness  of  their  situation,  among  trackless  forests 
and  savage  tribes,  had  disposed  the  colonists  to  supersti 
tious  fancies,  and  had  filled  their  imaginations  with  the 
frightful  chimeras  of  witchcraft  and   spectrology.     They 
were  much  given  also  to  a  belief  in  omens.     The  troubles 
with  Philip  and  his  Indians  were  preceded,  we  are  told,  by 
a  variety  of  those  awful  warnings  which  forerun  great  and 
public  calamities.     The  perfect  arm  of  an  Indian  bow  ap 
peared  in  the  air  at  New  Plymouth,  which  was  looked  upon 
by  the  inhabitants  as  a  "prodigious  apparition."     At  Had- 
ley,  Northampton,  and  other  towns  in  their  neighborhood, 
"  was  heard  the  report  of  a  great  piece  of  ordnance,  with 
the  shaking  of  the  earth  and  a  considerable  echo/'*     Others 
were  alarmed  on  a  still  sunshiny  morning  by  the  discharge 
of  guns  and  muskets;  bullets  seemed  to  whistle  past  them, 
and  the  noise  of  drums  resounded  in  the  air,  seeming  to 
pass  away  to  the  westward;  others  fancied  that  they  heard 
the  galloping  of  horses  over  their  heads;  and  certain  mon 
strous  births  which  took  place  about  the  time  filled  the 
superstitious   in    some    towns    with   doleful   forebodings. 
Many  of  these  portentous  sights  and  sounds  may  be  as-' 
cribed  to  natural  phenomena;  to  the  northern  lights  which 
occur  vividly  in  those  latitudes;  the  meteors  which  explode 
in  the  air;  the  casull  rushing  of  a  blast  through  the  top  i 
branches  of  the  forest;  the  crash  of  falling  trees  or  dis-1 
rupted   rocks;   and    to   those   other   uncouth   sounds   and • 
echoes   which  will  sometimes  strike  the  ear  so  strangely,; 
amidst  the  profound  stillness  of  woodland  solitudes.     These 
may   have   startled    some   melancholy   imaginations,    maya 
have  been  exaggerated  by  the  love  for  the  marvellous,  andl 
listened  to  with  that  avidity  with   which  we  devour  wlutt-j 
ev3r  is  fearful  and  mysterious.     The  universal  currency  of! 
these  superstitious  fancies,  and  the  grave  record  made  of] 
them  by  one  of  the  learned  men  of  the  day,  are  strongly 
characteristic  of  the  times. 

The  nature  of  the  contest  that  ensued  was  such  as 
too  often  distinguishes  the  warfare  between  civilized  men 
and  savages.  On  the  part  of  the  whites,  it  was  conducted 
with  superior  skill  and  success,  but  with  a  wastefulness  of-j 

*  The  Rev.  Increase  Mather's  llistory. 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  265 

the  blood,  and  a  disregard  of  the  natural  rights  of  their 
antagonists;  on  the  part  of  the  Indians  it  was  waged  with 
the  desperation  of  men  fearless  of  death,  and  who  had  noth 
ing  to  expect  from  peace  but  humiliation,  dependence  and 
decay. 

The  events  of  the  war  are  transmitted  to  us  by  a  worthy 
clergyman  of  the  time,  who  dwells  with  horror  and  indig 
nation  on  every  hostile  act  of  the  Indians,  however  justifi 
able,  whilst  he  mentions  with  applause  the  most  sanguinary 
atrocities  of  the  whites.  Philip  is  reviled  n-  a  murderer 
and  a  traitor;  without  considering  that  he  was  a  true-born 
prince,  gallantly  fighting  at  the  head  of  his  subjects  to 
avenge  the  tottering  power  of  his  line;  and  to  deliver  his 
native  land  from  the  oppression  of  usurping  strangers. 

The  p*roject  of  a  wide  and  simultaneous  revolt,  if  such 
had  really  been  formed,  was  worthy  of  a  capacious  mind,  and 
had  it  not  been  prematurely  discovered,  might  have  been 
overwhelming  in  its  consequences.  The  war  that  actually 
broke  out  was  but  a  war  of  detail;  a  mere  succession  of 
casual  exploits  and  unconnected  enterprises.  Still  it  sets 
forth  the  military  genius  and  daring  prowess  of  Philip;  and 
wherever,  in  the  prejudiced  and  passionate  narrations  that 
have  been  given  of  it,  we  can  arrive  at  simple  facts,  we  find 
him  displaying  a  vigorous  mind;  a  fertility  in  expedients;  a 
contempt  of  suffering  and  hardship;  and  an  unconquerable 
resolution,  that  command  our  sympathy  and  applause. 

Driven  from  his  paternal  domains  at  Mount  Hope,  he 
threw  himself  into  the  depths  of  those  vast  and  trackless 
forests  that  skirted  the  settlements,  and  were  almost  im 
pervious  to  anything  but  a  wild  beast  or  an  Indian.  Here 
he  gathered  together  his  forces,  like  the  storm  accumulating 
its  stores  of  mischief  in  the  bosom  of  the  thunder-cloud, 
and  would  suddenly  emerge  at  a  time  and  place  least  ex 
pected,  carrying  havoc  and  dismay  into  the  villages.  There 
were  now  and  then  indications  of  these  impending  ravages 
that  filled  the  minds  of  the  colonists  with  awe  and  appre 
hension.  The  report  of  a  distant  gun  would  perhaps  be 
heard  from  the  solitary  woodland,  where  there  was  known 
to  be  no  white  man;  the  cattle  which  had  been  wandering 
in  the  woods,  would  sometimes  return  home  wounded;  or 
an  Indian  or  two  would  be  seen  lurking  about  the  skirts  of 
the  forests,  and  suddenly  disappearing;  as  the  lightning 


266  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

will  sometimes  be  seen  playing  silently  about  the  edge  of 
the  cloud  that  is  brewing  up  the  tempest. 

Though  sometimes  pursued,  and  even  surrounded  by  the: 
settlers,  yet  Philip  as  often  escaped  almost  miraculously 
from  their  toils;  and  plunging  into  the  wilderness,  would 
be  lost  to  all  search  or  inquiry  until  he  again  emerged  at| 
some  far  distant  quarter,  laying  the  country  desolate.- 
Among  his  strongholds  were  the  great  swamps  or  morasses,! 
which  extend  in  some  parts  of  New  England;  composed  off 
loose  bogs  of  deep  black  mud;  perplexed  with  thickets,; 
brambles,  rank  weeds,  the  shattered  and  mouldering  trunks, 
of  fallen  trees,  overshadowed  by  lugubrious  hemlocks.  TliQl 
uncertain  footing  and  the  tangled  mazes  of  these  shaggy 
wilds,  rendered  them  almost  impracticable  to  the  white- 
man,  though  the  Indian  could  thread  their  labyrinths  withi 
the  agility  of  a  deer.  Into  one  of  these,  the  great  swamp 
of  Pocasset  Neck,  was  Philip  once  driven  with  a  band  of  his1* 
followers.  The  English  did  not  dare  to  pursue  him,  fear-! 
ing  to  venture  into  these  dark  and  frightful  recesses,  where! 
they  might  perish  in  fens  and  miry  pits  or  be  shot  down  bw 
lurking  foes.  They  therefore  invested  the  entrance  to  theft 
neck,  and  began  to  build  a  fort,  with  the  thought  of  starv4 
ing  out  the  foe;  but  Philip  and  his  warriors  wafted  them-> 
selves  on  a  raft  over  an  arm  of  the  sea,  in  the  dead  of  night,;, 
leaving  the  women  and  children  behind,  and  escaped  awayv 
to  the  westward,  kindling  the  flames  of  war  among  thffl 
tribes  of  Massachusetts  and  the  Nipmuck  country,  andi 
threatening  the  colony  of  Connecticut. 

In  this  way  Philip  became  a  theme  of  universal  appre 
hension.  The  mystery  in  which  he  was  enveloped  exaggeiv 
ated  his  real  terrors.  He  was  an  evil  that  walked  in| 
darkness;  whose  corning  none  could  foresee,  and  againstJ 
which  none  knew  when  to  be  on  the  alert.  The  whole'* 
country  abounded  with  rumors  and  alarms.  Philip  seemecM 
almost  possessed  of  ubiquity;  for,  in  whatever  part  of  thai 
widely  extended  frontier  an  irruption  from  the  forest  toola 
place,  Philip  was  said  to  be  its  leader.  Many  superstition^* 
notions  also  were  circulated  concerning  him.  He  was  saidi 
to  deal  in  necromancy,  and  to  be  attended  by  an  old  Indian; 
witch  or  prophetess,  whom  he  consulted,  and  who  assisted! 
him  by  her  charms  and  incantations.  This  indeed  waf^ 
frequently  the  case  with  Indian  chiefs;  either  through  theirt 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  267 

own  credulity,  or  to  act  upon  that  of  their  followers:  and 
the  influence  of  the  prophet  and  the  dreamer  over  Indian 
superstition  has  been  fully  evidenced  in  recent  instances  of 
savage  warfare. 

At  the  time  that  Philip  effected  his  escape  from  Pocas- 
set,  his  fortunes  were  in  a  desperate  condition.  His  forces 
had  been  thinned  by  repeated  fights,  and  he  had  lost  almost 
the  whole  of  his  resources.  In  this  time  of  adversity  he 
found  a  faithful  friend  in  Canonchet,  Chief  Sachem  of  all 
the  Narragansetts.  He  was  the  son  and  heir  of  Mianto- 
nomoh,  the  great  Sachem,  who,  as  already  mentioned,  after 
an  honorable  acquittal  of  the  charge  of  conspiracy,  had 
been  privately  put  to  death  at  the  perfidious  instigations  of 
the  settlers.  "He  was  the  heir,"  says  the  old  chronicler, 
"of  all  his  father's  pride  and  insolence,  as  well  as  of  his 
malice  towards  the  English;"  he  certainly  was  the  heir  of 
.  his  insults  and  injuries,  and  the  legitimate  avenger  of  his 
murder.  Though  he  had  forborne  to  take  an  active  part 
in  this  hopeless  war,  yet  he  received  Philip  and  his  broken 
forces  with  open  arms,  and  gave  them  the  most  generous 
countenance  and  support.  This  at  once  drew  upon  him 
the  hostility  of  the  English;  and  it  was  determined  to 
strike  a  signal  blow,  that  should  involve  both  the  Sachems 
in  one  common  ruin.  A  great  force  was,  therefore,  gath 
ered  together  from  Massachusetts,  Plymouth,  and  Con 
necticut,  and  was  sent  into  the  Narragansett  country  in 
the  depth  of  winter,  when  the  swamps,  being  frozen  and 
leafless,  could  be  traversed  with  comparative  facility,  and 
would  no  longer  afford  dark  and  impenetrable  fastnesses  to 
the  Indians. 

Apprehensive  of  attack,  Canonchet  had  conveyed  the 
greater  part  of  his  stores,  together  with  the  old,  the  infirm, 
the  women  and  children  of  his  tribe,  to  a  strong  fortress, 
where  he  and  Philip  had  likewise  drawn  up  the  flower  of 
their  forces.  This  fortress,  deemed  by  the  Indians  im 
pregnable,  was  situated  upon  a  rising  mound  or  kind  of 
island,  of  five  or  six  acres,  in  the  midst  of  a  swamp;  it  was 
constructed  with  a  degree  of  judgment  and  skill  vastly 
superior  to  what  is  usually  displayed  in  Indian  fortification, 
and  indicative  of  the  martial  genius  of  these  two  chieftains. 

Guided  by  a  renegade  Indian,  the  English  penetrated, 
through  December  snows,  to  this  stronghold,  and  camu 


268  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


upon  the  garrison  by  surprise.  The  fight  was  fierce  an 
tumultuous.  The  assailants  were  repulsed  in  their  first' 
attack,  and  several  of  their  bravest  officers  were  shot  down 
in  the  act  of  storming  the  fortress  sword  in  hand.  The 
assault  was  renewed  with  greater  success.  A  lodgement 
was  effected.  The  Indians  were  driven  from  one  post  to 
another.  They  disputed  their  ground  inch  by  inch,  fight 
ing  with  the  fury  of  despair.  Most  of  their  veterans  were; 
cut  to  pieces;  and  after  a  long  and  bloody  battle,  Philip 
and  Canonchet,  with  a  handful  of  surviving  warriors,  re 
treated  from  the  fort,  and  took  refuge  in  the  thickets  of' 
the  surrounding  forest. 

The  victors  set  fire  to  the  wigwams  and  the  fort;  the 
whole  was  soon  in  a  blaze;  many  of  the  old  men,  the! 
women  and  the  children,  perished  in  the  flames.  This 
last  outrage  overcame  even  the  stoicism  of  the  savage.  Thej 
neighboring  wood  resounded  with  the  yells  of  rage  and  des 
pair,  uttered  by  the  fugitive  warriors  as  they  beheld  thej 
destruction  of  their  dwellings,  and  heard  the  agonizing 
cries  of  their  wives  and  offspring.  "The  burning  of  the! 
wigwams,"  says  a  cotemporary  writer,  "the  shrieks  and! 
cries  of  the  women  and  children,  and  the  yelling  of  thd 
warriors,  exhibited  a  most  horrible  and  affecting  scene,  sd 
that  it  greatly  moved  some  of  the  soldiers."  The  samtj 
writer  cautiously  adds,  "  They  were  in  much  doubt  then, 
and  afterwards  seriously  inquired,  whether  burning  theiri 
enemies  alive  could  be  consistent  with  humanity,  and  thft 
benevolent  principles  of  the  gospel."* 

The  fate  of  the  brave  and  generous  Canonchet  is  worthy 
of  particular  mention;  the  last  scene  of  his  life  is  one  o| 
the  noblest  instances  on  record  of  Indian  magnanimity. 

Broken  down  in  his  power  and  resources  by  this  signal 
defeat,  yet  faithful  to  his  ally  and  to  the  hapless  causft 
which  he  hud  espoused,  he  rejected  all  overtures  of  peacfl 
offered  on  condition  of  betraying  Philip  and  his  followers, 
and  declared  that  "  he  would  fight  it  out  to  the  last  man, 
rather  than  beeo'ne  a  servant  to  the  English."  His  home? 
being  destroyed,  his  country  harassed  and  laid  waste  by* 
the  incursions  of  the  conquerors,  he  was  obliged  to  wander: 
away  to  the  banks  of  the  Connecticut;  where  he  formed  a* 

*  MS.  of  the  Rev.  W.  Ruggles. 


PBtLIP  Off  POKAKOREf,  m 

rallying  point  to  the  whole  body  of  western  Indians,  and 
laid  waste  several  of  the  English  settlements. 

Early  in  the  spring,  he  departed  on  a  hazardous  expedi 
tion,  with  only  thirty  chosen  men,  to  penetrate  to  Seaconck, 
in  the  vicinity  of  Mount  Hope,  and  to  procure  seed-corn 
to  plant  for  the  sustenance  of  his  troops.  This  little  band 
of  adventurers  had  passed  safely  through  the  Pequod  coun 
try,  and  were  in  the  centre  of  the  Narragansett,  resting  at 
some  wigwams  near  Pawtucket  river,  when  an  alarm  was 
given  of  an  approaching  enemy.  Having  but  seven  men 
by  him  at  the  time,  Canonchet  despatched  two  of  them  to 
the  top  of  a  neighboring  hill,  to  bring  intelligence  of  the 
foe. 

Panic-struck  by  the  appearance  of  a  troop  of  English  and 
Indians  rapidly  advancing,  they  fled  in  breathless  terror  past 
their  chieftain,  without  stopping  to  inform  him  of  the  dan- 

fer.  Canonchet  sent  another  scout,  who  did  the  same. 
Ie  then  sent  two  more,  one  of  whom,  hurrying  back  in 
confusion  and  affright,  told  him  that  the  whole  British 
army  was  at  hand.  Canonchet  saw  there  was  no  choice 
but  immediate  flight.  He  attempted  to  escape  round  the 
hill,  but  was  perceived  and  hotly  pursued  by  the  hostile  In 
dians,  and  a  few  of  the  fleetest  of  the  English.  Finding 
the  swiftest  pursuer  close  upon  his  heels,  he  threw  off,  first 
his  blanket,  then  his  silver-laced  coat  and  belt  of  peag,  by 
which  his  enemies  knew  him  to  be  Canonchet,  and  re 
doubled  the  eagerness  of  pursuit. 

At  length,  in  dashing  through  the  river,  his  foot  slipped 
upon  a  stone,  and  he  fell  so  deep  as  to  wet  his  gun.  This  ac 
cident  so  struck  him  with  despair,  that,  as  he  afterwards 
confessed,  "  his  heart  and  his  bowels  turned  within  him, 
and  he  became  like  a  rotten  stick,  void  of  strength." 

To  such  a  degree  was  he  unnerved,  that  being  seized  by 
a  Pequod  Indian  within  a  short  distance  of  the  river,  he 
made  no  resistance,  though  a  man  of  great  vigor  of  body 
and  boldness  of  heart.  But  on  being  made  prisoner,  the 
whole  pride  of  his  spirit  arose  within  him;  and  from  that 
moment,  we  find,  in  the  anecdotes  given  by  his  enemies, 
nothing  but  repeated  flashes  of  elevated  and  prince-like 
heroism.  Being  questioned  by  one  of  the  English  who 
first  came  up  with  him,  and  who  had  not  attained  his 
twenty-second  year,  the  proud-hearted  warrior,  looking  with 


270  THE  SKETGH-BOOK. 

lofty  contempt  upon  this  youthful  countenance,  replied, 
"  You  are  a  child — you  cannot  understand  matters  of  war — 
let  your  brother  or  your  chief  come — him  will  I  answer." 

Though  repeated  offers  were  made  to  him  of  his  life,  on 
condition  of  submitting  with  his  nation  to  the  English,  yet 
he  rejected  them  with  disdain,  and  refused  to  send  any 
proposals  of  the  kind  to  the  great  body  of  his  subjects; 
saying,  that  he  knew  none  of  them  would  comply.  Being 
reproached  with  his  breach  of  faith  towards  the  whites; 
his  boast  that  he  would  not  deliver  up  a  Wampanoag,  nor 
the  parings  of  a  \Yarn panoag's  nail;  and  his  threat  that  he 
would  burn  the  English  alive  in  their  houses;  he  disdained 
to  justify  himself,  haughtily  answering  that  others  were  as 
forward  for  the  war  as  himself,  "  and  he  desired  to  hear  no 
more  thereof." 

So  noble  and  unshaken  a  spirit,  so  true  a  fidelity  to  his 
cause  and  his  friend,  might  have  touched  the  feelings  of 
the  generous  and  the  brave;  but  Canonchet  was  an  Indian; 
a  being  towards  whom  war  had  no  courtesy,  humanity  no 
law,  religion  no  compassion — he  was  condemned  to  die. 
The  last  words  of  his  that  are  recorded,  are  worthy  the 
greatness  of  his  soul.  When  sentence  of  death  was  passed 
upon  him,  he  observed  "  that  he  liked  it  well,  for  he  should 
die  before  his  heart  was  soft,  or  he  had  spoken  anything 
unworthy  of  himself."  His  enemies  gave  him  the  death  of 
a  soldier,  for  he  was  shot  at  Stouingham,  by  three  young 
Sachems  of  his  own  rank. 

The  defeat  of  the  Narragansett  forces,  and  the  death 
of  Canonchet,  were  fatal  blows  to  the  fortunes  of  King 
Philip.  He  made  an  ineffectual  attempt  to  raise  a  head 
of  v/ar,  by  stirring  up  the  Mohawks  to  take  arms;  but 
though  possessed  of  the  native  talents  of  a  statesman,  his 
arts  were  counteracted  by  the  superior  arts  of  his  enlight 
ened  enemies,  and  the  terror  of  their  warlike  skill  began 
to  subdue  the  resolution  of  the  neighboring  tribes.  The 
unfortunate  chieftain  saw  himself  daily  stripped  of  power, 
and  his  ranks  rapidly  thinning  around  him.  Some  were 
suborned  by  the  whites;  others  fell  victims  to  hunger  and 
fatigue,  and  to  the  frequent  attacks  by  which  they  were 
harassed.  His  stores  were  all  captured;  his  chosen  friends 
were  swept  away  from  before  his  eyes;  his  uncle  was  shot 
down  by  his  side;  his  sister  was  carried  into  captivity;  and 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  271 

and  in  one  of  his  narrow  escapes  he  was  compelled  to  leave 
his  beloved  wife  and  only  son  to  the  mercy  of  the  enemy. 
"  His  ruin,"  says  the  historian,  "  being  thus  gradually  car 
ried  on,  his  misery  was  not  prevented,  but  augmented 
thereby;  being  himself  made  acquainted  with  the  sense  and 
experimental  feeling  of  the  captivity  of  his  children,  loss 
of  friends,  slaughter  of  his  subjects,  bereavement  of  all 
family  relations,  and  being  stripped  of  all  outward  com 
forts,  before  his  own  life  should  be  taken  away." 

To  fill  up  the  measure  of  his  misfortunes,  his  own  fol 
lowers  began  to  plot  against  his  life,  that  by  sacrificing  him 
they  might  purchase  dishonorable  safety.  Through 
treachery,  a  number  of  his  faithful  adherents,  the  subjects 
of  Wetamoe,  an  Indian  princess  of  Pocasset,  a  near  kins 
woman  and  confederate  of  Philip,  were  betrayed  into  the 
hands  of  the  enemy.  Wetamoe  was  among  them  at  the 
time,  and  attempted  to  make  her  escape  by  crossing  a 
neighboring  river:  either  exhausted  by  swimming,  or  starved 
with  cold  and  hunger,  she  was  found  dead  and  naked  near 
the  water  side.  But  persecution  ceased  not  at  the  grave: 
even  death,  the  refuge  of  the  wretched,  where  the  wicked 
commonly  cease  from  troubling,  was  no  protection  to  this 
outcast  female,  whose  great  crime  was  affectionate  fidelity 
to  her  kinsman  and  her  friend.  Her  corpse  was  the  ob 
ject  of  unmanly  and  dastardly  vengeance;  the  head  was 
severed  from  the  body  and  set  upon  a  pole,  and  was  thus 
exposed,  at  Taunton,  to  the  view  of  her  captive  subjects. 
They  immediately  recognized  the  features  of  their  unfortu 
nate  queen,  and  were  so  affected  at  this  barbarous  spec 
tacle,  that  we  are  told  they  broke  forth  into  the  "most 
horrid  and  diabolical  lamentations." 

However  Philip  had  borne  up  against  the  complicated 
miseries  and  misfortunes  that  surrounded  him,  the  treach 
ery  of  his  followers  seemed  to  wring  his  heart  and  reduced 
him  to  despondency.  It  is  said  that  "he  never  rejoiced 
afterwards,  nor  had  success  in  any  of  his  designs."  The 
spring  of  hope  was  broken — the  ardor  of  enterprise  was  ex 
tinguished:  he  looked  around,  and  all  was  danger  and 
darkness;  there  was  no  eye  to  pity  him,  nor  any  arm  that 
could  bring  deliverance.  With  a  scanty  band  of  followers, 
who  still  remained  true  to  his  desperate  fortunes,  the  un 
happy  Philip  wandered  back  to  the  vicinity  of  Mount 


272  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Hop«,  the  ancient  dwelling  of  his  fathers.  Here  he  lurked 
about,  "  like  a  spectre  among  the  scenes  of  former  power 
and  prosperity,  now  bereft  of  home,  of  family,  and  friend." 
There  needs  no  better  picture  of  his  destitute  and  piteous 
situation,  than  that  furnished  by  the  homely  pen  of  the 
chronicler,  who  is  unwarily  enlisting  the  feelings  of  the 
reader  in  favor  of  the  hapless  warrior  whom  he  reviles. 
"  Philip,"  he  says,  "like  a  savage  wild  beast,  having  been 
hunted  by  the  English  forces  through  the  woods  above  a 
hundred  miles  backward  and  forward,  at  last  was  driven  to 
his  own  den  upon  Mount  Hope,  where  he  had  retired,  with 
a  few  of  his  best  friends,  into  a  swamp,  which  proved  but 
a  prison  to  keep  him  fast  till  the  messengers  of  death 
came  by  divine  permission  to  execute  vengeance  upon 
him." 

Even  at  this  last  refuge  of  desperation  and  despair,  a 
sullen  granduer  gathers  round  his  memory.  We  picture 
him  to  ourselves  seated  among  his  careworn  followers, 
brooding  in  silence  over  his  blasted  fortunes,  and  acquiring 
a  savage  sublimity  from  the  wildness  and  dreariness  of  his 
lurking-place.  Defeated,  but  not  dismayed — crushed  to 
the  earth,  but  not  humiliated — he  seemed  to  grow  more 
haughty  beneath  disaster  and  to  experience  a  fierce  satisfac 
tion  in  draining  the  last  dregs  of  bitterness.  Little  minds 
are  tamed  and  subdued  by  misfortune;  but  great  minds  rise 
above  it.  The  very  idea  of  submission  awakened  the  fury  . 
of  Philip,  and  he  smote  to  death  one  of  his  followers,  who 
proposed  an  expedient  of  peace.  The  brother  of  the  victim 
made  his  escape,  and  in  revenge  betrayed  the  retreat  of  his 
chieftain.  A  body  of  white  men  and  Indians  were  imme 
diately  despatched  to  the  swamp  were  Philip  lay  crouched, 
glaring  with  fury  and  despair.  Before  he  was  aware  of 
their  approach,  they  had  begun  to  surround  him.  In  a 
little  while  he  saw  five  of  his  trustiest  followers  laid  dead  at 
his  feet;  all  resistance  was  vain;  he  rushed  forth  from  his 
covert,  and  made  a  headlong  attempt  at  escape,  but  was 
shot  through  the  heart  by  a  renegade  Indian  of  his  own 
nation. 

Such  is  the  scanty  story  of  the  brave,  but  unfortunate 
King  Philip;  persecuted  while  living,  slandered  and  dis 
honored  when  dead.  If,  however,  we  consider  even  the 
prejudiced  anecdotes  furnished  us  by  his  enemies,  we  may 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  273 

perceive  in  them  traces  of  amiable  and  lofty  character, 
sufficient  to  awaken  sympathy  for  his  fate  and  respect  for 
his  memory.  We  find,  that  amidst  all  the  harassing  cares 
and  ferocious  passions  of  constant  warfare,  he  was  alive  to 
the  softer  feelings  of  connubial  love  and  paternal  tender 
ness,  and  to  the  generous  sentiment  of  friendship.  The 
captivity  of  his  ''beloved  wife  and  only  son"  is  mentioned 
with  exultation,  as  causing  him  poignant  misery:  the  death 
of  any  near  friend  is  triumphantly  recorded  as  a  new  blow 
on  his  sensibilities;  but  the  treachery  and  desertion  of  many 
of  his  followers,  in  whose  affections  he  had  confided,  is  said 
to  have  desolated  his  heart,  and  to  have  bereaved  him  o* 
all  farther  comfort.  He  was  a  patriot,  attached  to  Lis 
native  soil — a  prince  true  to  his  subjects,  and  indignant  of 
their  wrongs — a  soldier,  daring  in  battle,  firm  in  adversity, 
patient  of  fatigue,  of  hunger,  of  every  variety  of  bodily  suf 
fering,  and  ready  to  perish  in  the  cause  he  had  espoused. 
Proud  of  heart,  and  with  an  untamable  love  of  natural 
liberty,  he  preferred  to  enjoy  it  among  the  beasts  of  the 
forests,  or  in  the  dismal  and  famished  recesses  of  swamps 
and  morasses,  rather  than  bow  his  haughty  spirif  to  sub 
mission,  and  live  dependent  and  despised  in  the  ease  and 
luxury  of  the  settlements.  With  heroic  qualities  and  bold 
achievements  that  would  have  graced  a  civilized  warrior, 
and  have  rendered  him  the  theme  of  the  poet  and  the  his 
torian,  he  lived  a  wanderer  and  a  fugitive  in  his  native 
land,  and  went  down,  like  a  lonely  bark,  foundering  amid 
darkness  and  tempest — without  a  pitying  eye  to  weep  his 
fall,  or  a  friendly  hand  to  record  his  struggle. 


274  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


JOHN  BULL. 

An  old  song,  made  by  an  aged  old  pate, 
Of  an  old  worshipful  gentleman  who  had  a  great  estate, 
That  kept  a  brave  old  house  at  a  bountiful  rate, 
And  an  old  porter  to  relieve  the  poor  at  his  gate. 
With  an  old  study  fill'd  full  of  learned  books, 
With  an  old  reverend  chaplain,  you  might  know  him  by  his  looks, 
With  an  old  buttery-hatch  worn  quite  off  the  hooks, 
And  an  old  kitchen  that  maintained  half-a-dozen  old  cooks. 

Like  an  old  courtier,  &c. 
Old  Song, 

THERE  is  no  species  of  humor  in  which  the  English 
more  excel,  than  that  which  consists  in  caricaturing  and 
giving  ludicrous  appellations  or  nick-names.  In  this  way 
they  have  whimsically  designated,  not  merely  individuals, 
but  nations;  and  in  their  fondness  for  pushing  a  joke,  they 
have  not  spared  even  themselves.  One  would  think  that, 
in  personifying  itself,  a  nation  would  be  apt  to  picture 
something  grand,  heroic,  and  imposing;  but  it  is  character 
istic  of  the  peculiar  humor  of  the  English,  and  of  their 
love  for  what  is  blunt,  comic,  and  familiar,  that  they  have 
embodied  their  national  oddities  in  the  figure  of  a  sturdy, 
corpulent  old  fellow,  with  a  three-cornered  hat.  red  waist 
coat,  leather  breeches,  and  stout  oaken  cudgel.  Thus  they 
have  taken  a  singular  delight  in  exhibiting  their  most  pri 
vate  foibles  in  a  laughable  point  of  view;  and  have  been  so 
successful  in  their  delineation,  that  there  is  scarcely  a  being 
in  actual  existence  more  absolutely  present  to  the  public 
mind  than  that  eccentric  personage,  John  Bull. 

Perhaps  the  continual  contemplation  of  the  character 
thus  drawn  of  them,  has  contributed  to  fix  it  upon  the 
nation;  and  thus  to  give  reality  to  what  at  first  may  have 
been  painted  in  a  great  measure  from  the  imagination. 
Men  are  apt  to  acquire  peculiarities  that  are  continually 
ascribed  to  them.  The  common  orders  of  English  seem 
wonderfully  captivated  with  the  beau  ideal  which  they 
have  formed  of  John  Bull,  and  endeavor  to  act  up  to  the 


JOHN  BULL.  275 

broad  caricature  that  is  perpetually  before  their  eyes.  Un 
luckily,  they  sometimes  make  their  boasted  Bull-ism  an 
apology  for  their  prejudice  orgrossness;  and  this  I  have  es 
pecially  noticed  among  those  home-bred  and  genuine  sons 
of  the  soil  who  have  never  migrated  beyond  the  sound  of 
Bow  Bells  If  one  of  these  should  be  a  little  uncouth  in 
speech,  and  apt  to  utter  impertinent  truths,  he  confesses 
that  he  is  a  real  John  Bull,  and  always  speaks  his  mind. 
If  he  now  and  then  flies  into  an  unreasonable  burst  of  pas 
sion  about  trifles,  he  observes  that  John  Bull  is  a  choleric 
old  blade;  but  then  his  passion  is  over  in  a  moment,  and  he 
bears  no  malice.  If  he  betrays  a  coarseness  of  taste,  and 
an  insensiblity  to  foreign  refinement,  he  thanks  Heaven 
for  his  ignorance — he  is  a  plain  John  Bull,  and  has  no 
relish  for  frippery  and  knicknacks.  His  very  proneness  to 
be  gulled  by  strangers,  and  to  pay  extravagantly  for  absurd 
ities,  is  excused  under  the  plea  of  munificence — for  John 
is  always  more  generous  than  wise. 

Thus,  under  the  name  of  John  Bull,  he  will  contrive  to 
argue  every  fault  into  a  merit,  and  will  frankly  convict 
himself  of  being  the  honestest  fellow  in  existence. 

However  little,  therefore,  the  character  may  have  suited 
in  the  first  instance,  it  has  gradually  adapted  itself  to  the 
nation,  or  rather  they  have  adapted  themselves  to  each 
other;  and  a  stranger  who  wishes  to  study  English  peculiar 
ities,  may  gather  much  valuable  information  from  the  in 
numerable  portraits  of  John  Bull,  as  exhibited  in  the  win 
dows  of  the  caricature-shops.  Still,  however,  he  is  one  of 
those  fertile  humorists  that  are  continually  throwing  out 
new  portraits,  and  presenting  different  aspects  from  differ 
ent  points  of  view;  and,  often  as  he  has  been  described,  I 
cannot  resist  the  temptation  to  give  a  slight  sketch  of  him, 
such  as  he  has  met  my  eye. 

John  Bull,  to  all  appearance,  is  a  plain  downright  matter- 
of-fact  fellow,  with  much  less  of  poetry  about  him  than 
rich  prose.  There  is  little  of  romance  in  his  nature,  but  a 
vast  deal  of  strong  natural  feeling.  He  excels  in  humor 
more  than  in  wit;  is  jolly  rather  than  gay;  melancholy 
rather  than  morose;  can  easily  be  moved  into  a  suddentear, 
or  surprised  into  a  broad  laugh;  but  he  loathes  sentiment, 
and  has  no  turn  for  light  pleasantry.  He  is  a  boon  com 
panion,  if  you  allow  him  to  have  his  humor,  and  to  talk 


about  himself;  and  he  will  stand  by  a  friend  in  a  quarrel, 
with  life  and  purse,  however  soundly  he  may  be  cudgelled. 

In  this  last  respect,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  has  a  propensity 
to  be  somewhat  too  ready.     He  is  a  busy-minded  personage, 
who  thinks  not  merely  for  himself  and  family,  but  for  all 
the  country  round,  and  is  most  generally  supposed  to  be 
everybody's  champion.     He  is  continually  volunteering  his 
services  to  settle  his  neighbors'  affairs,  and  takes  it  in  great 
dudgeon  if  they  engage  in  any  matter  of  consequence  with 
out  asking  his  advice;  though  he  seldom  engages  in  any 
friendly  office  of  the  kind  without  finishing  by  getting  into 
a  squabble  with  all  parties,  and  then  railing  bitterly  at  their 
ingratitude.     He  unluckily  took  lessons  in  his  youth  in  the 
noble  science  of  defence,  and  having  accomplished  himself 
in  the  use  of  his  limbs  and  his  weapons,  and  become  a  per 
fect  master  at  boxing  and  cudgel-pla}r,  he  has  had  a  troub 
lesome  life  of  it  ever  since.     He  cannot  hear  of  a  quarrel 
between  the  most  distant  of  his  neighbors,  but  he  begins 
incontinently  to  fumble  with  the  head  of  his  cudgel,  and^ 
consider   whether  his  interest  or  honor  does  not  require 
that  he  should  meddle  in  the  broil.     Indeed,  he  has  ex-| 
tended  his  relations  of  pride  and  policy  so  completely  over 
the  whole  country,  that  no  event  can  take  place  without 
infringing  some   of  his   finely-spun  rights   and  dignities. 
Crouched  in  his  little  domain,  with  these  filaments  stretch 
ing  forth  in  every  direction,  he  is  like  some  choleric,  bot-j 
tie-bellied  old  spider,  who  has  woven  his  web  over  a  whole; 
chamber,  so  that  a  fly  cannot  buzz,  nor  a  breeze  blow,  with-* 
out  startling  his  repose,  and  causing  him  to  sally  forth 
wrathfully  from  his  den. 

Though  really  a  good-hearted,  good-tempered  old  fello\v 
at  bottom,  yet  he  is  singularly  fond  of  being  in  the  miclstt 
of  contention.     It  is  one  of  his  peculiarities,  however,  thatf 
he  only  relishes  the  beginning  of  an  affray;  he  always  goes? 
into  a  fight  with  alacrity,  but  comes  out  of  it  grumbling 
even  when  victorious;  and  though  no  one  fights  with  more 
obstinacy  to  carry  a  contested  point,  yet  when  the  battle  isa 
over  and  he  comes  to  the  reconciliation,  he  is  so  much  taken  < 
ui)  with  the  mere  shaking  of  hands,  that  he  is  apt  to  let  Iu8» 
antagonist  pocket  all  that  they  have  been  quarrelling  about., 
It  is  not,  therefore,  fighting  that  lie  ought  so  much  to  be  oni 
his  guard  against,  as  making  friends.     It  is  difficult  to  cud- 


gel  him  out  of  a  farthing;  but  put  him  in  a  good  humor, 
and  you  may  bargain  him  out  of  all  the  money  in  his 
pocket.  He  is  like  a  stout  ship,  which  will  weather  the 
roughest  storm  uninjured,  but  roll  its  masts  overboard 
in  the  succeeding  calm. 

He  is  a  little  fond  of  playing  the  magnifico  abroad;  of 
pulling  out  a  long  purse;  flinging  his  money  bravely  about 
at  boxing-matches,  horse-races,  cock-fights,  and  carrying  a 
high  head  among  " gentlemen  of  the  fancy;"  but  imme 
diately  after  one  of  these  fits  of  extravagance,  he  will  be 
taken  with  violent  qualms  of  economy;  stop  short  at  the 
most  trivial  expenditure;  talk  desperately  of  being  ruined 
and  brought  upon  the  parish;  and  in  such  moods  will  not 
pay  the  smallest  tradesman's  bill  without  violent  altercation. 
He  is,  in  fact,  the  most  punctual  and  discontented  pay 
master  in  the  world;  drawing  his  coin  out  of  his  breeches 
pocket  with  infinite  reluctance;  paying  to  the  uttermost 
farthing,  but  accompanying  every  guinea  with  a  growl. 

With  all  his  talk  of  economy,  however,  he  is  a  bountiful 
provider,  and  a  hospitable  house-keeper.  His  economy  is 
of  a  whimsical  kind,  its  chief  object  being  to  devise  how  he 
may  afford  to  be  extravagant;  for  he  will  begrudge  himself 
a  beef-steak  and  a  pint  of  port  one  day,  that  he  may  roast 
an  ox  whole,  broach  a  hogshead  of  ale,  and  treat  all  his 
neighbors  on  the  next. 

His  domestic  establishment  is  enormously  expensive:  not 
so  much  from  any  great  outward  parade,  as  from  the  great 
consumption  of  solid  beef  and  pudding;  the  vast  number  cf 
followers  he  feeds  and  clothes;  and  his  singular  disposition 
to  pay  hugely  for  small  services.  He  is  a  most  kind  and 
indulgent  master,  and,  provided  his  servants  humor  his 
peculiarities,  flatter  his  vanity  a  little  now  and  then,  and  do 
not  peculate  grossly  on  him  before  his  face,  they  may  man 
age  him  to  perfection.  Everything  that  lives  on  him  seems 
to  thrive  and  grow  fat.  His  house  servants  are  well  paid, 
and  pampered,  and  have  little  to  do.  His  horses  are  sleek 
and  lazy,  and  prance  slowly  before  his  state  carnage;  and 
his  house-dogs  sleep  quietly  about  the  door,  and  will  hardly 
bark  at  a  house-breaker. 

His  family  mansion  is  an  old  castellated  manor-house, 
gray  with  age,  and  of  a  most  venerable,  though  weather- 
beaten,  appearance.  It  has  been  built  upon  no  regular 


278  THE  SKETCH-BOOR. 

plan,  but  is  a  vast  accumulation  of  parts,  erected  in  various 
tastes  and  ages.  The  centre  bears  evident  traces  of  Saxon 
architecture,  and  is  as  solid  as  ponderous  stone  and  old 
English  oak  can  make  it.  Like  all  tuu  relics  of  that  style, 
it  is  full  of  obscure  passages,  intricate  nuizes,  and  dusky 
chambers;  and  though  these  have  been  partially  lighted  up 
in  modern  days,  yet  there  a,  many  places  where  you  must 
still  grope  in  the  dark.  Aduitions  luive  been  made  to  the 
original  edifice  from  time  .o  time,  and  great  alterations 
have  taken  place;  towers  and  battlements  have  been  erected 
during  wars  and  tumults;  wings  built  in  time  of  peace,  and 
out-houses,  lodges,  and  offices,  run  up  according  to  the 
whim  or  convenience  of  different  generations,  until  it  has 
become  one  of  the  most  spacious,  rambling  tenements  im 
aginable.  An  entire  wing  is  taken  up  with  the  family 
chapel;  a  reverend  pile,  that  must  once  have  been  exceed 
ingly  sumptuous,  and,  indeed,  in  spite  of  having  been 
altered  and  simplified  at  various  periods,  has  still  a  look  of 
solemn  religious  pomp.  Its  walls  within  are  storied  with 
the  monuments  of  John's  ancestors;  and  it  is  snugly  fitted 
up  with  soft  cushions  and  well-lined  chairs,  where  such  of 
his  family  as  are  inclined  to  church  services,  may  doze  com 
fortably  in  the  discharge  of  their  duties. 

To  keep  up  this  chapel,  has  cost  John  much  money; 
but  he  is  staunch  in  his  religion,  and  piqued  in  his  zeal, 
from  the  circumstance  that  many  dissenting  chapels  have 
been  erected  in  his  vicinity,  and  several  of  his  neighbors, 
with  whom  he  has  had  quarrels,  are  strong  Papists. 

To  do  the  duties  of  the  chapel,  he  maintains,  at  a  large 
expense,  a  pious  and  portly  family  chaplain.  He  is  a  most 
learned  and  decorous  personage,  and  a  truly  well-bred 
Christian,  who  always  backs  the  old  gentleman  in  his  opin 
ions,  winks  discreetly  at  his  little  peccadilloes,  rebukes 
the  children  when  refractory,  and  is  of  great  use  in  exhort 
ing  the  tenants  to  read  their  bibles,  say  their  prayers,  and, 
above  all,  to  pay  their  rents  punctually,  and  without 
grumbling. 

The  family  apartments  are  in  a  very  antiquated  taste, 
somewhat  heavy,  and  often  inconvenient,  but  full  of  the 
solemn  magnificence  of  former  times;  fitted  up  with  rich, 
though  faded  tapestry,  unwieldy  furniture,  and  loads  of 
massy  gorgeous  old  plate.  The  vast  fire-places,  ample 


JOHN  BULL.  279 

kitchens,  extensive  cellars,  and  sumptuous  banqueting 
hulls, — all  speak  of  the  roaring  hospitality  of  days  of  yore, 
of  which  the  modern  festivity  at  the  manor-house  is  but  a 
shadow.  There  are,  however,  complete  suites  of  rooms  ap 
parently  deserted  -and  time-worn;  and  towers  and  turrets 
that  are  tottering  to  decay;  so  that  in  high  winds  there 
is  danger  of  their  tumbling  about  the  ears  of  the  house 
hold. 

John  has  frequently  been  advised  to  have  the  old  edifice 
thoroughly  overhauled,  and  to  have  some  of  the  useless 
parts  pulled  down,  and  the  others  strengthened  with  their 
materials;  but  the  old  gentleman  always  grows  testy  on  this 
subject.  He  swears  the  house  is  an  excellent  house — that 
it  is  tight  and  weather-proof,  and  not  to  be  shaken  by 
tempests — that  it  has  stood  for  several  hundred  years,  and 
therefore  is  not  likely  to  tumble  down  now — that  as  to  its 
being  inconvenient,  his  family  is  accustomed  to  the  incon 
veniences,  and  would  not  be  comfortable  without  them — 
that  as  to  its  unwieldy  size  and  irregular  construction,  these 
result  from  its  being,  the  growth  of  centuries,  and  being 
improved  by  the  wisdom  of  every  generation — that  an  old 
family,  like  his,  requires  a  large  house  to  dwell  in;  new, 
upstart  families  may  live  in  modern  cottages  and  snug 
boxes,  but  an  old  English  family  should  inhabit  an  old 
English  manor-house.  If  you  point  out  any  part  of  the 
building  as  superfluous,  he  insists  that  it  is  material  to  the 
strength  or  decoration  of  the  rest,  and  the  harmony  of 
the  whole;  and  swears  that  the  parts  are  so  built  into  each 
other,  that  if  you  pull  down  one  you  run  the  risk  of  having 
the  whole  about  your  ears. 

The  secret  of  the  matter  is,  that  John  has  a  great  dispo 
sition  to  protect  and  patronize.  He  thinks  it  indispensable 
to  the  dignity  of  an  ancien^  and  honorable  family,  to  be 
bounteous  in  its  appointments,  and  to  be  eaten  up  by  de 
pendants;  and  so,  partly  from  pride,  and  partly  from  kind- 
heartedness,  he  makes  it  a  rule  always  to  give  shelter  and 
maintenance  to  his  superannuated  servants. 

The  consequence  is,  that,  like  many  other  venerable 
family  establishments,  his  manor  is  encumbered  by  old  re 
tainers  whom  he  cannot  run  off,  and  an  old  style  which  he 
cannot  lay  down.  His  mansion  is  like  a  great  hospital  of 
invalids,  and,  with  all  its  magnitude,  is  not  a  whit  too  large 


280  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

for  its  inhabitants.  Not  a  nook  or  corner  but  is  of  use  in 
housing  some  useless  personage.  Groups  of  veteran  beef 
eaters,  gouty  pensioners,  and  retired  heroes  of  the  buttery 
and  the  larder,  are  seen  lolling  about  its  walls,  crawling 
over  its  lawns,  dozing  under  its  trees,  or  sunning  them 
selves  upon  the  benches  at  its  doors.  Every  office  and  out 
house  is  garrisoned  by  these  supernumeraries  and  their 
families;  for  they  are  amazingly  prolific,  and  when  they  die 
off,  are  sure  to  leave  John  a  legacy  of  hungry  mouths  to  be 
provided  for.  A  mattock  cannot  be  struck  against  the 
most  mouldering  tumble-down  tower,  but  out  pops,  from 
some  cranny  or  loop-hole,  the  gray  pate  of  some  superannu 
ated  hanger-on,  who  has  lived  at  John's  expense  all  his 
life,  and  makes  the  most  grievous  outcry,  at  their  pulling 
down  the  roof  from  over  the  head  of  a  worn-out  servant  of 
the  family.  This  is  an  appeal  that  John's  honest  heart 
never  can  withstand;  so  that  a  man  who  has  faithfully  eaten 
his  beef  and  pudding  all  his  life,  is  sure  to  be  rewarded  with 
a  pipe  and  tankard  in  his  old  days. 

A  great  part  of  his  park,  also,  is  turned  into  paddocks, 
where  his  broken-down  chargers  are  turned  loose  to  graze 
undisturbed  for  the  remainder  of  their  existence — a  worthy 
example  of  grateful  recollection,  which  if  some  of  his 
neighbors  were  to  imitate,  would  not  be  to  their  discredit. 
Indeed,  it  is  one  of  his  great  pleasures  to  point  out  these 
old  steeds  to  his  visitors,  to  dwell  on  their  good  qualities, 
extol  their  past  services,  and  boast,  with  some  little  vain 
glory,  of  the  perilous  adventures  and  hardy  exploits 
through  which  they  have  carried  him. 

He  is  given,  however,  to  indulge  his  veneration  for  family 
usages,  and  family  encumbrances,  to  a  whimsical  extent. 
His  manor  is  infested  by  gangs  of  gypsies;  yet  he  will  not 
suffer  them  to  be  driven  off,  because  they  have  infested  the 
place  time  out  of  mind,  and  been  regular  poachers  upon 
every  generation  of  the  family.  He  will  scarcely  permit  a 
dry  branch  to  be  lopped  from  the  great  trees  that  surround 
the  house,  lest  it  should  molest  the  rooks,  that  have  bred 
there  for  centuries.  Owls  have  taken  possession  of  the 
dovecote;  but  they  are  hereditary  owls,  and  must  not  be  dis 
turbed.  Swallows  have  nearly  choked  up  every  chimney 
with  their  nests;  martins  build  in  every  frieze  and  cornice; 
crows  flutter  about  the  towers,  and  perch  on  every  weather- 


JOHN  BULL.  281 

cock;  and  old  gray-headed  rats  may  be  seen  in  every  quarter 
of  the  house,  running  in  and  out  of  their  holes  undauntedly 
in  broad  daylight.  In  short,  John  has  such  a  reverence  for 
everything  that  has  been  long  in  the  family,  that  he  will 
not  hear  even  of  abuses  being  reformed,  because  they  are 
good  old  family  abuses. 

All  these  whims  and  habits  have  concurred  wofully  to 
drain  the  old  gentleman's  purse;  and  as  he  prides  himself 
on  punctuality  in  money  matters,  and  wishes  to  maintain 
his  credit  in  the  neighborhood,  they  have  caused  him  great 
perplexity  in  meeting  his  engagements.  This,  too,  has 
been  increased  by  the  altercations  and  heartburnings  which 
are  continually  taking  place  in  his  family.  His  children 
have  been  brought  up  to  different  callings,  and  are  of  differ 
ent  ways  of  thinking;  and  as  they  have  always  been  allowed 
to  speak  their  minds  freely,  they  do  not  fail  to  exercise  the 
privilege  most  clamorously  in  the  present  posture  of  his 
affairs.  Some  stand  up  for  the  honor  of  the  race,  and  are 
clear  that  the  old  establishment  should  be  kept  up  in  all  its 
state,  whatever  may  be  the  cost;  others,  who  are  more  pru 
dent  and  considerate,  entreat  the  old  gentleman  to  retrench 
his  expenses,  and  to  put  his  whole  system  of  housekeeping 
on  a  more  moderate  footing.  He  has,  indeed,  at  times, 
seemed  inclined  to  listen  to  their  opinions,  but  their  whole 
some  advice  has  been  completely  defeated  by  the  obstrep 
erous  conduct  of  one  of  his  sons.  This  is  a  noisy  rattle- 
pated  fellow,  of  rather  low  habits,  who  neglects  his  business 
to  frequent  ale-houses — is  the  orator  of  village  clubs,  and  a 
complete  oracle  among  the  poorest  of  his  father's  tenants. 
No  sooner  does  he  hear  any  of  his  brothers  mention  reform 
or  retrenchment,  than  up  he  jumps,  takes  the  words  out  of 
their  mouths,  and  roars  out  for  an  overturn.  When  his 
tongue  is  once  going,  nothing  can  stop  it.  He  rants  about 
the  room;  hectors  the  old  man  about  his  spendthrift  prac 
tices;  ridicules  his  tastes  and  pursuits;  insists  that  he  shall 
turn  the  old  servants  out  of  doors;  give  the  broken-down 
horses  to  the  hounds;  send  the  fat  chaplain  packing  and 
take  a  field-preacher  in  his  place — nay,  that  the  whole  fam 
ily  mansion  shall  be  leveled  with  the  ground,  and  a  plain 
one  of  brick  and  mortar  built  in  its  place.  He  rails  at  every 
social  entertainme"-'  and  family  festivity,  and  skulks  away 
growling  to  the  ale-!  .ouse  whenever  an  equipage  drives  up 


282  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

to  the  door.  Though  constantly  complaining  of  the  empti 
ness  of  his  purse,  yet  he  scruples  not  to  spend  all  his  pocket- 
money  in  these  tavern  convocations,  and  even  runs  up  scores 
for  the  liquor  over  which  he  preaches  about  his  father's  ex 
travagance. 

It  may  readily  be  imagined  how  little  such  thwarting 
agrees  with  the  old  cavalier's  fiery  temperament.  He  has 
become  so  irritable  from  repeated  crossings,  that  the  mere 
mention  of  retrenchment  or  reform  is  a  signal  for  a  brawl 
between  him  and  the  tavern  oracle.  As  the  latter  is  too 
sturdy  and  refractory  for  paternal  discipline,  having  grown 
out  of  all  fear  of  the  cudgel,  they  have  frequent  scenes  of 
wordy  warfare,  which  at  times  run  so  high,  that  John  is 
fain  to  call  in  the  aid  of  his  son  Tom,  an  officer  who  has 
served  abroad,  but  is  at  present  living  at  home  on  half-pay. 
This  last  is  sure  to  stand  by  the  old  gentleman,  right  o*r 
wrong;  likes  nothing  so  much  as  a  racketing  roistering  life; 
and  is  ready,  at  a  wink  or  nod,  to  out  sabre,  and  flourish  it 
over  the  orator's  head,  if  he  dares  to  array  himself  against 
paternal  authority. 

These  family  dissensions,  as  usual,  have  got  abroad,  and 
are  rare  food  for  scandal  in  John's  neighborhood.  People 
begin  to  look  wise,  and  shake  their  heads,  whenever  his 
affairs  are  mentioned.  They  all  "  hope  that  matters  are 
not  so  bad  with  him  as  represented;  but  when  a  man's  own 
children  begin  to  rail  at  his  extravagance,  things  must  be 
badly  managed.  They  understand  he  is  mortgaged  over 
head  and  ears,  and  is  continually  dabbling  with  money 
lenders.  He  is  certainly  an  open-handed  old  gentleman, 
but  they  fear  he  has  lived  too  fast;  indeed,  they  never 
knew  any  good  come  of  this  fondness  for  hunting,  racing, 
revelling  and  prize-fighting.  In  short,  Mr.  Bull's  estate  is 
a  very  fine  one,  and  lias  been  in  the  family  a  long  while; 
but  for  all  that,  they,  have  known  many  finer  estates  come 
to  the  hammer." 

What  is  worst  of  ail,  is  the  effect  which  these  pecuniary 
embarrassments  and  domestic  feuds  have  had  on  the  poor 
man  himself.  Instead  of  that  jolly  round  corporation,  and 
smug  rosy  face,  which  he  used  to  present,  he  has  of  late  be 
come  as  shrivelled  and  shrunk  as  a  frostbitten  apple.  His 
scarlet  gold-laced  waistcoat,  which  bellied  out  so  bravely  in 
those  prosperous  days  when  he  sailed  before  the  wind,  now 


JOHN  BULL.  283 

hangs  loosely  about  him  like  a  mainsail  in  a  calm.  His 
leather  breeches  are  all  in  folds  and  wrinkles,  and  appar 
ently  have  much  ado  to  hold  up  the  boots  that  yawn  on  both 
sides  of  his  once  sturdy  legs. 

Instead  of  strutting  about,  as  formerly,  with  his  three- 
cornered  hat  on  one  side;  flourishing  his  cudgel,  and 
bringing  it  down  every  moment  with  a  hearty  thump  upon 
the  ground;  looking  every  one  sturdily  in  the  face,  and 
trolling  out  a  stave  of  a  catch  or  a  drinking  song;  he  now 
goes  about  whistling  thoughtfully  to  himself,  with  his  head 
drooping  down,  his  cudgel  tucked  under  his  arm,  and  his 
hands  thrust  to  the  bottom  of  his  breeches  pockets,  which 
are  evidently  empty. 

Such  is  the  plight  of  honest  John  Bull  at  present;  yet 
for  all  this,  the  old  fellow's  spirit  is  as  tall  and  as  gallant  as 
ever.  If  you  drop  the  least  expression  of  sympathy  or  con 
cern,  he  takes  fire  in  an  instant;  swears  that  he  is  the 
richest  and  stoutest  fellow  in  the  country;  talks  of  laying 
out  large  sums  to  adorn  his  house  or  to  buy  another  estate; 
and,  with  a  valiant  swagger  and  grasping  of  his  cudgel, 
longs  exceedingly  to  have  another  bout  at  quarterstaff. 

Though  there  may  be  something  rather  whimsical  in  all 
this,  yet  I  confess  I  cannot  look  upon  John's  situation 
without  strong  feelings  of  interest.  With  all  his  odd 
humors  and  obstinate  prejudices,  he  is  a  sterling-hearted 
old  blade.  He  may  not  be  so  wonderfully  fine  a  fellow  as 
he  thinks  himself,  but  he  is  at  least  twice  as  good  as  his 
neighbors  represent  him.  His  virtues  are  all  his  own;  all 
plain,  homebred,  and  unaffected.  His  very  faults  smack 
of  the  raciness  of  his  good  qualities.  His  extravagance 
savors  of  his  generosity;  his  quarrelsomeness,  of  his 
courage;  his  credulity,  of  his  open  faith;  his  vanity,  of  his 
pride;  and  his  bluntness,  of  his  sincerity.  They  are  all 
the  redundancies  of  a  rich  and  liberal  character.  He  is 
like  his  old  oak;  rough  without,  but  sound  and  solid 
within;  whose  bark  abounds  with  excrescences  in  propor 
tion  to  the  growth  and  grandeur  of  the  timber;  and  whose 
branches  make  a  fearful  groaning  and  murmuring  in  the 
least  storm,  from  their  very  magnitude  and  luxuriance. 
There  is  something,  too,  in  the  appearance  of  his  old 
family  mansion,  that  is  extremely  poetical  and  picturesque; 
and,  as  long  as  it  can  be  rendered  comfortably  habitable,  I 


j>84  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

should  almost  tremble  to  see  it  meddled  with  during  the 
present  conflict  of  tastes  and  opinions.  Some  of  his  ad 
visers  are  no  douht  good  architects,  that  might  be  of  ser 
vice;  but  many,  I  fear,  are  mere  levellers,  who,  when  they 
had  once  got  to  work  with  their  mattocks  on  the  venerable 
edifice,  would  never  stop  until  they  had  brought  it  to  the 
ground,  and  perhaps  buried  themselves  among  the  ruins. 
All  th.at  I  wish,  is,  that  John's  present  troubles  may  teach 
him  more  prudence  in  future;  that  he  may  cease  to  dis 
tress  his  mind  about  other  people's  affairs;  that  he  may 
give  up  the  fruitless  attempt  to  promote  the  good  of 
his  neighbors,  and  the  peace  and  happiness  of  the  world, 
by  dint  of  the  cudgel;  that  he  may  remain  quietly  at  home; 
gradually  get  his  house  into  repair;  cultivate  his  rich 
estate  according  to  his  fancy;  husband  his  income — if  he 
thinks  proper;  bring  his  unruly  children  into  order — if  he 
can;  renew  the  jovial  scenes  of  ancient  prosperity;  and 
long  enjoy,  on  his  paternal  lauds,  a  green,  an  honorable, 
and  a  merry  old  age. 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE.  285 


May  no  wolf  liowle:  no  screech-owle  stir 

A  wing  about  tliy  sepulchre! 

No  boysterous  winds  or  stormes  come  liither, 

To  starve  or  wither 

Thy  soft  sweet  earth!  but,  like  a  spring, 
Love  keep  it  ever  flourishing. 

HERRICK. 

IN  the  course  of  an  excursion  through  one  of  the  remote 
counties  of  England,  I  had  struck  into  one  of  those  cross 
roads  that  lead  through  the  more  secluded  parts  of  the 
country,  and  stopped  one  afternoon  at  a  village,  the  situation 
of  which  was  beautifully  rural  and  retired.  There  was  an 
air  of  primitive  simplicity  about  its  inhabitants,  not  to  be 
found  in  the  villages  which  lie  on  the  great  coach-roads. 
I  determined  to  pass  the  night  there,  and  having  taken  an 
early  dinner,  strolled  out  to  enjoy  the  neighboring  scenery. 

My  ramble,  as  is  usually  the  case  with  travellers,  soon 
led  me  to  the  church,  which  stood  at  a  little  distance  from 
the  village.  Indeed,  it  was  an  object  of  some  curiosity,  its 
old  tower  being  completely  overrun  with  ivy,  so  that  only 
here  and  there  a  jutting  buttress,  an  angle  of  gray  wall,  or 
a  fantastically  carved  ornament  peered  through  the  verdant 
covering.  It  was  a  lovely  evening.  The  early  part  of  the 
day  had  been  dark  and  showery,  but  in  the  afternoon  it  had 
cleared  up;  and  though  sullen  clouds  still  hung  overhead, 
yet  there  was  a  broad  tract  of  golden  sky  in  the  west,  from 
which  the  setting  sun  gleamed  through  the  dripping  leaves, 
and  lit  up  all  nature  into  a  melancholy  smile.  It  seemed 
like  the  parting  hour  of  a  good  Christian,  smiling  on  the 
sins  and  sorrows  of  the  world,  and  giving,  in  the  serenity 
of  his  decline,  an  assurance  that  he  will  rise  again  in 
glory. 

I  had  seated  myself  on  a  half-sunken  tombstone,  and  was 
musing,  as  one  is  apt  to  do  at  this  sober-thoughted  hour, 
on  past  scenes,  and  early  friends — on  those  who  were 


286  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

tant,  and  those  who  were  dead — and  indulging  in  that 
kind  of  melancholy  fancying  which  has  in  it  something 
sweeter  even  than  pleasure.  Every  now  and  then,  the 
stroke  of  a  bell  from  the  neighboring  tower  fell  on  my  ear; 
its  tones  were  in  unison  with  the  scene,  and  instead  of  jar 
ring,  chimed  in  with  my  feelings;  and  it  was  some  time  be 
fore  I  recollected  that  it  must  be  tolling  the  knell  of  some 
new  tenant  of  the  tomb. 

Presently  I  saw  a  funeral  train  moving  across  the  village 
green;  it  wound  slowly  along  a  lane;  was  lost,  and  reap 
peared  through  the  breaks  of  the  hedges,  until  it  passed  the 
place  where  I  was  sitting.  The  pall  was  supported  by 
young  girls,  dressed  in  white;  and  another,  about  the  age 
of  seventeen,  walked  before,  bearing  a  chaplet  of  white 
flowers,  a  token  that  the  deceased  was  a  young  and  unmar 
ried  female.  The  corpse  was  followed  by  the  parents. 
They  were  a  venerable  couple,  of  the  better  order  of  peas 
antry.  The  father  seemed  to  repress  his  feelings;  but  his 
fixed  eye,  contracted  brow,  and  deeply-furrowed  face, 
showed  the  struggle  that  was  passing  within.  His  wife 
hung  on  his  arm,  and  wept  aloud  with  the  convulsive 
bursts  of  a  mother's  sorrow. 

I  followed  the  funeral  into  the  church.  The  bier  was 
placed  in  the  centre  aisle,  and  the  chaplet  of  white  flowers, 
with  a  pair  of  white  gloves,  were  hung  over  the  seat  which 
the  deceased  had  occupied. 

Every  one  knows  the  soul-subduing  pathos  of  the  funeral 
service;  for  who  is  so  fortunate  as  never  to  have  followed 
some  one  he  has  loved  to  the  tomb?  but  when  performed  over 
the  remains  of  innocence  and  beauty,  thus  laid  low  in  the 
bloom  of  existence — what  can  be  more  affecting?  At  that 
simple,  but  most  solemn  consignment  of  the  body  to  the 
grave — "Earth  to  earth — ashes  to  ashes — dust  to  dust!" 
the  tears  of  the  youthful  companions  of  the  deceased 
flowed  unrestrained.  The  father  still  seemed  to  struggle 
with  his  feelings,  and  to  comfort  himself  with  the  assur 
ance,  that  the  dead  are  blessed  which  die  in  the  Lord;  but 
the  mother  only  thought  of  her  child  as  a  flower  of  the 
field,  cut  down  and  withered  in  the  midst  of  its  sweetness: 
she  was  like  Rachel,  "  mourning  over  her  children,  and 
would  not  be  comforted." 

On  returning  to  the  inn  I  learnt  the  whole  story  of  the 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILTAQE.  287 

deceased.  It  was  a  simple  one,  and  such  as  has  often  been 
told.  She  had  been  the  beauty  and  pride  of  the  village. 
Her  father  had  once  been  an  opulent  farmer,  but  was  re 
duced  in  circumstances.  This  was  an  only  child,  and 
brought  up  entirely  at  home,  in  the  simplicity  of  rural  life. 
She  had  been  the  pupil  of  the  village  pastor,  the  favorite 
lamb  of  his  little  flock.  The  good  man  watched  over  her  ed 
ucation  with  paternal  care;  it  was  limited,  and  suitable  to 
the  sphere  in  which  she  was  to  move;  for  he  only  sought  to 
make  her  an  ornament  to  her  station  in  life,  not  to  raise 
her  above  it.  The  tenderness  and  indulgence  of  her 
parents,  and  the  exemption  from  all  ordinary  occupations, 
had  fostered  a  natural  grace  and  delicacy  of  character  that 
accorded  with  the  fragile  loveliness  of  her  form.  She  ap 
peared  like  some  tender  plant  of  the  garden,  blooming 
accidentally  amid  the  hardier  natives  of  the  fields. 

The  superiority  of  her  charms  was  felt  and  acknowledged 
by  her  companions,  but  without  envy;  for  it  was  surpassed 
by  the  unassuming  gentleness  and  winning  kindness  of  her 
manners.  It  might  be  truly  said  of  her: 

"  This  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass,  that  ever 
Ran  on  the  greensward:  nothing  she  does  or  seems, 
But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself; 
Too  noble  for  this  place." 

The  village  was  one  of  those  sequestered  spots,  which 
still  retains  some  vestiges  of  old  English  customs.  It  had 
its  rural  festivals  and  holiday  pastimes,  and  still  kept  up 
some  faint  observance  of  the  once  popular  rites  of  May. 
These,  indeed,  had  been  promoted  by  its  present  pastor, 
who  was  a  lover  of  old  customs,  and  one  of  those  simple 
Christians  that  think  their  mission  fulfilled  by  promoting 
joy  on  earth  and  good  will  among  mankind.  Under  his 
auspices  the  May-pole  stood  from  year  to  year  in  the  centre 
of  the  village  green;  on  May-day  it  was  decorated  with  gar 
lands  and  streamers;  and  a  queen  or  the  lady  of  the  May 
was  appointed,  as  in  former  times,  to  preside  at  the  sports, 
and  distribute  the  prizes  and  rewards.  The  picturesque 
situation  of  the  village,  and  the  fancifulness  of  its  rustic 
fetes,  would  often  attract  the  notice  of  casual  visitors. 
Among  these,  on  one  May-day,  was  a  young  officer,  whose 
regiment  had  been  recently  quartered  in  the  neighborhood. 
He  was  charmed  with  the  native  taste  that  pervaded  this 


288  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

village  pageant;  but  above  all,  with  the  dawning  lovelines? 
of  the  queen  of  May.  It  was  the  village  favorite,  who  was 
crowned  with  flowers,  and  blushing  and  smiling  in  all  the 
beautiful  confusion  of  girlish  diffidence  and  delight.  The 
artlessness  of  rural  habits  enabled  him  readily  to  make  her 
acquaintance;  he  gradually  won  his  way  into  her  intimacy, 
and  paid  his  court  to  her  in  that  unthinking  way  in  which 
young  officers  are  too  apt  to  trifle  with  rustic  simplicity. 

There  was  nothing  in  his  advances  to  startle  or  alarm. 
He  never  even  talked  of  love;  but  there  are  modes  of  mak 
ing  it,  more  eloquent  than  language,  and  which  convey  it 
subtilely  and  irresistibly  to  the  heart.  The  beam  of  the  eye, 
the  tone  of  the  voice,  the  thousand  tendernesses  which 
emanate  from  every  word,  and  look,  and  action — these  form 
the  true  eloquence  of  love,  and  can  always  be  felt  and  un 
derstood,  but  never  described.  Can  we  wonder  that  they 
should  readily  win  a  heart,  young,  guileless,  and  suscepti 
ble?  As  to  her,  she  loved  almost  unconsciously;  she 
scarcely  inquired  what  was  the  growing  passion  that  was 
absorbing  every  thought  and  feeling,  or  what  were  to  be  its 
consequences.  She,  indeed,  looked  not  to  the  future. 
When  present,  his  looks  and  words  occupied  her  whole 
attention;  when  absent,  she  thought  but  of  what  had  passed 
at  their  recent  interview.  She  would  wander  with  him 
through  the  green  lanes  and  rural  scenes  of  the  vicinity. 
He  taught  her  to  see  new  beauties  in  nature;  he  talked  in 
the  language  of  polite  and  cultivated  life,  and  breathed 
into  her  ear  the  witcheries  of  romance  and  poetry. 

Perhaps  there  could  not  have  been  a  passion,  between  the 
sexes,  more  pure  than  this  innocent  girl's.  The  gallant 
figure  of  her  youthful  admirer,  and  the  splendor  of  his 
military  attire,  might  at  first  have  charmed  her  eye;  but  it ; 
was  not  these  that  had  captivated  her  heart.  Her  attach 
ment  had  something  in  it  of  idolatry;  she  looked  up  to  him 
as  to  a  being  of  a  superior  order.  She  felt  in  his  society 
the  enthusiam  of  a  mind  naturally  delicate  and  poetical, 
and  now  first  awakened  to  a  keen  perception  of  the  beauti 
ful  and  grand.  Of  the  sordid  distinctions  of  rank  and 
fortune,  she  thought  nothing;  it  was  the  difference  of  in 
tellect,  of  demeanor,  of  manners,  from  those  of  the  rustic 
society  to  which  she  had  been  accustomed,  that  elevated 
him  in  her  opinion.  She  would  listen  to  him  with  charmed 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE.  289 

ear  and  downcast  look  of  mute  delight,  and  her  cheek 
would  mantle  with  enthusiasm;  or  if  ever  she  ventured  a 
shy  glance  of  timid  admiration,  it  was  as  quickly  with 
drawn,  and  she  would  sigh  and  blush  at  the  idea  of  her 
comparative  unworthiness. 

Her  lover  was  equally  impassioned;  but  his  passion  was 
mingled  with  feelings  of  a  coarser  nature.  He  had  begun 
the  connection  in  levity;  for  he  had  often  heard  his  brother 
officers  boast  of  their  village  conquests,  and  thought  some 
triumph  of  the  kind  necessary  to  his  reputation  as  a  man 
of  spirit.  But  he  was  too  full  of  youthful  fervor.  His 
heart  had  not  yet  been  rendered  sufficiently  cold  and  self 
ish  by  a  wandering  and  a  dissipated  life;  it  caught  fire 
from  the  very  flame  it  sought  to  kindle;  and  before  he  was 
aware  of  the  nature  of  his  situation,  he  became  really  in 
love. 

What  was  he  to  do?  There  were  the  old  obstacles  which 
so  incessantly  occur  in  these  heedless  attachments.  His 
rank  in  life — the  prejudices  of  titled  connections — his  de 
pendence  upon  a  proud  and  unyielding  father — all  forbade 
him  to  think  of  matrimony: — but  when  he  looked  down 
upon  this  innocent  being,  so  tender  and  confiding,  there 
was  a  purity  in  her  manners,  a  blamelessness  in  her  life, 
and  a  bewitching  modesty  in  her  looks,  that  awed  down 
every  licentious  feeling.  In  vain  did  he  try  to  fortify  him 
self,  by  a  thousand  heartless  examples  of  men  of  fashion, 
and  to  chill  the  glow  of  generous  sentiment,  with  that  cold 
derisive  levity  with  which  he  had  heard  them  talk  of  female 
virtue;  whenever  he  came  into  her  presence,  she  was  still 
surrounded  by  that  mysterious,  but  impassive  charm  of 
virgin  purity,  in  whose  hollowed  sphere  no  guilty  thought 
can  live. 

The  sudden  arrival  of  orders  for  the  regiment  to  repair 
to  the  continent,  completed  the  confusion  of  his  mind.  He 
remained  for  a  short  time  in  a  state  of  ,the  most  painful 
irresolution;  he  hesitated  to  communicate  the  tidings,  until 
the  day  for  marching  was  at  hand,  when  he  gave  her  the 
intelligence  in  the  course  of  an  evening  ramble. 

The  idea  of  parting  had  never  before  occurred  to  her. 
It  broke  in  at  once  upon  her  dream  of  felicity;  she  looked 
upon  it  as  a  sudden  and  insurmountable  evil,  and  wept 
with  the  guileless  simplicity  of  a  child.  He  drew  her  to 


290  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

his  bosom  and  kissed  the  tears  from  her  soft  cheek,  nor 
did  he  meet  with  a  repulse,  for  there  are  moments  of 
mingled  sorrow  and  tenderness,  which  hallow  the  caresses 
of  affection.  He  was  naturally  impetuous,  and  the  sight 
of  beauty  apparently  yielding  in  his  arms,  the  confidence  of 
his  power  over  her,  and  the  dread  of  losing  her  forever,  all 
conspired  to  overwhelm  his  better  feelings — he  ventured  to 
propose  that  she  should  leave  her  home,  and  be  the  com 
panion  of  his  fortunes. 

He  was  quite  a  novice  in  seduction,  and  blushed  and  fal 
tered  at  his  own  baseness;  but,  so  innocent  of  mind  was  his 
intended  victim,  that  she  was  at  first  at  a  loss  to  compre 
hend  his  meaning:—  and  why  she  should  leave  her  native 
village,  and  the  humble  roof  of  her  parents.  When  at  last 
the  nature  of  his  proposals  flashed  upon  her  pure  mind, 
the  effect  was  withering.  She  did  not  weep — she. did  not 
break  forth  into  reproaches — she  said  not  a  word — but  she 
shrunk  back  aghast  as  from  a  viper,  gave  him  a  look  of 
anguish  that  pierced  to  his  very  soul,  and  clasping  her 
hands  in  agony,  fled,  as  if  for  refuge,  to  her  father's  cottage. 

The  officer  retired,  confounded,  humiliated,  and  repent 
ant.  It  is  uncertain  what  might  have  been  the  result  of 
the  conflict  of  his  feelings,  had  not  his  thoughts  been 
diverted  by  the  bustle  of  departure.  New  scenes,  new 
pleasures,  and  new  companions,  soon  dissipated  his  self- 
reproach,  and  stifled  his  tenderness.  Yet,  amidst  the 
stir  of  camps,  the  revelries  of  garrisons,  the  array  of  armies, 
and  even  the  din  of  battles,  his  thoughts  would  sometimes 
steal  back  to  the  scenes  of  rural  quiet  and  village  simplic 
ity — the  white  cottage — the  footpath  along  the  silver  brook 
and  up  the  hawthorn  hedge,  and  the  little  village  maid 
loitering  along  it,  leaning  on  his  arm  and  listening  to  him; 
with  eyes  beaming  with  unconscious  affection. 

The  shock  which  the  poor  girl  had  received  in  the  de 
struction  of  all  her  ideal  world,  had  indeed  been  cruel. 
Paintings  and  hysterics  had  at  first  shaken  her  tender 
frame,  and  were  succeeded  by  a  settled  and  pining  melan 
choly.  She  had  beheld  from  her  window  the  march  of  de-. 
parting  troops.  She  had  seen  her  faithless  lover  borne  off, 
as  if  in  triumph,  amidst  the  sound  of  drum  and  trumpet, 
and  the  pomp  of  arms.  She  strained  a  last  aching  gaze 
after  him,  as  the  morning  sun  glittered  about  his  figure, 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE.  291 

and  his  plume  waved  in  the  breeze;  he  passed  away  like  a 
bright  vision  from  her  sight,  and  left  her  all  in  darkness. 

It  would  be  trite  to  dwell  on  the  particulars  of  her  after- 
story.  It  was,  like  other  tales  of  love,  melancholy.  She 
avoided  society,  and  wandered  out  alone  in  the  walks  she 
had  most  frequented  with  her  lover.  She  sought,  like  the 
stricken  deer,  to  weep  in  silence  and  loneliness,  and  brood 
over  the  barbed  sorrow  that  rankled  in  her  soul.  Some 
times  she  would  be  seen  late  of  an  evening  sitting  in  the 
porch  of  the  village  church;  and  the  milk-maids,  returning 
from  the  fields,  would  now  and  then  overhear  her  singing 
some  plaintive  ditty  in  the  hawthorn  walk.  She  became 
fervent  in  her  devotion  at  church;  and  as  the  old  people 
saw  her  approach,  so  wasted  away,  yet  with  a  hectic  bloom, 
and  that  hallowed  air  which  melancholy  diffuses  round 
the  form,  they  would  make  way  for  her,  as  for  something 
spiritual,  and,  looking  after  her,  would  shake  their  heads 
in  gloomy  foreboding. 

She  felt  a  conviction  that  she  was  hastening  to  the  tomb, 
but  looked  forward  to  it  as  a  place  of  rest.  The  silver 
cord  that  had  bound  her  to  existence  was  loosed,  and  there 
seemed  to  be  no  more  pleasure  under  the  sun.  If  ever  her 
gentle  bosom  had  sntertained  resentment  against  her  lover, 
it  was  extinguished.  She  was  incapable  of  angry  passions, 
and  in  a  moment  of  saddened  tenderness  she  penned  him  a 
farewell  letter.  Jt  was  couched  in  the  simplest  language, 
but  touching  from  its  very  simplicity.  She  told  him  that  she 
was  dying,  and  did  not  conceal  from  him  that  his  conduct 
was  the  cause.  She  even  depicted  the  sufferings  which  she 
had  experienced;  but  concluded  with  saying  that  she  could 
not  die  in  peace  until  she  had  sent  him  her  forgiveness 
and  her  blessing. 

By  degress  her  strength  declined,  and  she  could  no  longer 
leave  the  cottage.  She  could  only  totter  to  the  window, 
where,  propped  up  in  her  chair,  it  was  her  enjoyment  to 
sit  all  day  and  look  out  upon  the  landscape.  Still  she 
uttered  no  complaint,  nor  imparted  to  anyone  the  malady 
that  was  preying  on  her  heart.  She  never  even  mentioned 
her  lover's  name,  but  would  lay  her  head  on  her  mother's 
bosom  and  weep  in  silence.  Her  poor  parents  hung  in 
mute  anxiety  over  this  fading  blossom  of  their  hopes,  still 
flattering  themselves  that  it  might  again  revive  to  fresh- 


292  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

ness,  and  that  the  bright  unearthly  bloom  which  sometimes 
flushed  her  cheek,  might  be  the  promise  of  returning 
health. 

In  this  way  she  was  seated  between  them  one  Sunday 
afternoon;  her  hands  were  clasped  in  theirs,  the  lattice  was 
thrown  open,  and  the  soft  air  that  stole  in  brought  with  it 
the  fragrance  of  the  clustering  honeysuckle,  which  her  own 
hands  had  trained  round  the  window. 

Her  father  had  just  been  reading  a  chapter  in  the  Bible; 
it  spoke  of  the  vanity  of  worldly  things,  and  the  joys  of 
heaven;  it  seemed  to  have  diffused  comfort  and  serenity 
through  her  bosom.  Her  eye  was  fixed  on  the  distant  vil- 

f  O  J 

v  lage  church — the  bell  had  tolled  for  evening  service — the 
last  villager  was  lagging  into  the  porch — and  everything  had 
sunk  into  that  hallowed  stillness  peculiar  to  the  day  of  rest. 
Her  parents  were  gazing  on  her  with  yearning  hearts. 
Sickness  and  sorrow,  which  pass  so  roughly  over  some 
faces,  had  given  to  hers  the  expression  of  a  seraph's.  A 
tear  trembled  in  her  soft  blue  eye. — Was  she  thinking  of 
her  faithless  lover? — or  were  her  thoughts  wandering  to 
that  distant  churchyard,  into  whose  bosom  she  might  soon 
be  gathered? 

Suddenly  the  clang  of  hoofs  was  heard — a  horseman  gal 
loped  to  the  cottage — he  dismounted  before  the  window — 
the  poor  girl  gave  a  faint  exclamation,  and  sunk  back  in 
her  chair; — it  was  her  repentant  lover!  He  rushed  into  the 
house,  and  flew  to  clasp  her  to  his  bosom;  but  her  wasted 
form — her  death-like  countenance — so  wan,  yet  so  lovely  in 
its  desolation — smote  him  to  the  soul,  aud  he  threw  himself 
in  an  agony  at  her  feet.  She  was  too  faint  to  rise — she  at 
tempted  to  extend  her  trembling  hand — her  lips  moved  as 
if  she  spoke,  but  no  word  was  articulated — she  looked  down 
•^upon  him  with  a  smile  of  unutterable  tenderness,  and  closed 
her  eyes  forever! 

Such  are  the  particulars  which  I  gathered  of  this  village 
story.  They  are  but  scanty,  and  I  am  conscious  have  but 
little  novelty  to  recommend  them.  In  the  present  ragej 
also  for  strange  incident  and  high-seasoned  narrative,  theyJ 
may  appear  trite  and  insignificant,  but  they  interested  mep 
strongly  at  the  time;  and,  taken  in  connection  with  the 
affecting  ceremony  which  I  had  just  witnessed,  left  a  deeper 
impression  on  my  mind  than  any  circumstances  of  a  mort ; 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE.  293 

.striking  nature.  I  have  passed  through  the  place  since, 
and  visited  the  church  again  from  a  better  motive  than 
mere  curiosity.  It  was  a  wintry  evening;  the  trees  were 
stripped  of  their  foliage;  the  churchyard  looked  nuked  and 
mournful,  and  the  wind  rustled  coldly  through  the  grass. 
Evergreens,  however,  had  been  planted  about  the  grave  of 
the  village  favorite,  and  osiers  were  bent  over  it  to  keep 
the  turf  uninjured.  The  church  door  was  open,  and  I 
stepped  in. — There  hung  the  chaplet  of  flowers  and  the 
gloves,  as  on  the  day  of  the  funeral:  the  flowers  were  with 
ered,  it  is  true,  but  care  seemed  to  have  been  taken  that  no 
dust  should  soil  their  whiteness.  I  have  seen  many  monu 
ments,  where  art  has  exhausted  its  powers  to  awaken  the 
sympathy  of  the  spectator;  but  I  have  met  with  none  that 
spoke  more  touchingly  to  my  heart  than  this  simple,  but 
delicate  memento  of  departed  innocence. 


294  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


THE  ANGLER. 

This  day  dame  Nature  seem'd  in  love, 

The  lusty  sap  began  to  move, 

Fresh  juice  did  stir  th'  embracing  vines, 

And  birds  had  drawn  their  valentines. 

The  jealous  trout  that  low  did  lie, 

Rose  at  a  well  dissembled  fly. 

There  stood  my  friend,  with  patient  skill, 

Attending  of  his  trembling  quill. 

SIR  H.  WOTTON. 

IT  is  said  that  many  an  unlucky  urchin  is  induced  to  run 
away  from  his  family,  and  betake  himself  to  seafaring  life, 
Trom  reading  the  history  of  Robinson  Crusoe;  and  I  suspect 
chat,  in  like  manner,  many  of  those  worthy  gentlemen, 
who  are  given  to  haunt  the  sides  of  pastoral  streams  with 
angle-rods  in  hand,  may  trace  the  origin  of  their  passion  to 
the  seductive  pages  of  honest  Izaak  Walton.  I  recollect 
studying  his  "Complete  Angler"  several  years  since,  in 
company  with  a  knot  of  friends  in  America,  and,  moreover, 
that  we  were  all  completely  bitten  with  the  angling  mania. 
It  was  early  in  the  year;  but  as  soon  as  the  weather  was 
auspicious,  and  the  spring  began  to  melt  into  the  verge 
of  summer,  we  took  rod  in  hand  and  sallied  into  the  coun 
try,  as  stark  mad  as  was  ever  Don  Quixote  from  reading 
books  of  chivalry. 

One  of  our  party  had  equalled  the  Don  in  the  fullness  of 
his  equipments;  being  attired  cap-a-pie  for  the  enterprise. 
He  wore  a  broad-skirted  fustian  coat  perplexed  with  half  a 
hundred  pockets;  a  pair  of  stout  shoes,  and  leathern  gaiters; 
a  basket  slung  on  one  side  for  fish;  a  patent  rod;  a  landing 
net,  and  a  score  of  other  inconveniences  only  to  be  found 
in  t'he  true  angler's  armory.  Thus  harnessed  for  the  field, 
he  was  as  great  a  master  of  stare  and  wonderment  among 
the  country  folk,  who  had  never  seen  a  real  angler,  as  was 
the  steel-clad  hero  of  La  Mancha  among  the  goatherds  of 
the  Sierra  Morena, 


THE  ANGLER.  295 

Our  first  essay  was  along  a  mountain  brook,  among  the 
highlands  of  the  Hudson — a  most  unfortunate  place  for  the 
execution  of  those  piscatory  tactics  which  had  been  invented 
along  the  velvet  margins  of  quiet  English  rivulets.  It  was 
one  of  those  wild  streams  that  lavish,  among  our  romantic 
solitudes,  unheeded  beauties,  enough  to  fill  the  sketch-book 
of  a  hunter  of  the  picturesque.  Sometimes  it  would  leap 
down  rocky  shelves,  making  small  cascades,  over  which  the 
trees  threw  their  broad  balancing  sprays;  and  long  nameless . 
weeds  hung  in  fringes  from  the  impending  banks,  dripping 
with  diamond  drops.  Sometimes  it  would  brawl  and  fret 
along  a  ravine  in  the  matted  shade  of  a  forest,  filling  it  with 
murmurs;  and  after  this  termagant  career,  would  steal  forth 
into  open  day  with  the  most  placid  demure  face  imaginable; 
as  I  have  seen  some  pestilent  shrew  of  a  housewife,  after 
filling  her  home  with  uproar  and  ill-humor,  come  dimpling 
out  of  doors,  swimming,  and  curtseying  and  smiling  upon  all 
the  world. 

How  smoothly  would  this  vagrant  brook  glide,  at  such 
times,  through  some  bosom  of  green  meadow  land,  among 
the  mountains;  where  the  quiet  was  only  interrupted  by 
the  occasional  tinkling  of  a  bell  from  the  lazy  cattle  among 
the  clover,  or  the  sound  of  a  woodcutter's  axe  from  the 
neighboring  forest! 

For  my  part,  I  was  always  a  bungler  at  all  kinds  of  sport 
that  required  either  patience  or  adroitness,  and  had  not 
angled  above  half  an  hour,  before  I  had  completely  "  satisfied 
the  sentiment/'  and  convinced  myself  of  the  truth  of  Izaak 
Walton's  opinion,  that  angling  is  something  like  poetry — a 
man  must  be  born  to  it.  I  hooked  myself  instead  of  the 
fish;  tangled  my  line  in  every  tree;  lost  my  bait;  broke  my 
rod;  until  I  gave  up  the  attempt  in  despair,  and  passed  the 
day  under  the  trees,  reading  old  Izaak;  satisfied  that  it  was 
his  fascinating  vein  of  honest  simplicity  and  rural  feeling 
that  had  bewitched  me,  and  not  the  passion  for  angling. 
My  companions,  however,  were  more  persevering  in  their 
delusion.  I  have  them  at  this  moment  before  my  eyes, 
stealing  along  the  border  of  the  brook,  where  it  lay  open  to 
the  day,  or  was  merely  fringed  by  shrubs  and  bushes.  I 
see  the  bittern  rising  with  hollow  scream,  as  they  break  in 
upon  his  rarely-invaded  haunt;  the  kingfisher  watching 
them  suspiciously  from  his  dry  tree  that  overhangs  the  deep 


296  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

black  mill-pond,  in  the  gorge  of  the  hills;  the  tortoise  let 
ting  himself  slip  sideways  from  off  the  stone  or  log  on  which 
he  is  sunning  himself;  and  the  panic-struck  frog  plumping 
in  headlong  as  they  approach,  and  spreading  an  alarm 
throughout  the  watery  world  around, 

I  recollect,  also,  that,  after  toiling  and  watching  and 
creeping  about  for  the  greater  part  of  a  day,  with  scarcely 
any  success,  in  spite  of  all  our  admirable  apparatus,  a  lub 
berly  country  urchin  came  down  from  the  hills,  with  a  rod 
made  from  a  branch  of  a  tree,  a  few  yards  of  twine,  and, 
as  heaven  shall  help  me!  I  believe  a  crooked  pin  for  a 
hook,  baited  with  a  vile  earth-worm — and  in  half  an 
hour  caught  more  fish  than  we  had  nibbles  throughout 
the  day. 

But  above  all,  I  recollect  the  "good,  honest,  wholesome, 
hungry"  repast,  which  we  made  under  the  beech-tree  just 
by  a  spring  of  pure  sweet  water,  that  stole  out  of  the  side 
of  a  hill;  and  how,  when  it  was  over,  one  of  the  party  read 
old  Izaak  Walton's  scene  with  the  milk-maid,  while  I  lay 
on  the  grass  and  built  castles  in  a  bright  pile  of  clouds, 
until  I  fell  asleep.  All  this  may  appear  like  mere  egotism; 
yet  I  cannot  refrain  from  uttering  these  recollections  which 
are  passing  like  a  strain  of  music  over  my  mind,  and  have 
been  called  up  by  an  agreeable  scene  which  I  witnessed  not 
long  since. 

In  a  morning's  stroll  along  the  banks  of  the  Alun,  a 
beautiful  little  stream  which  flows  down  from  the  Welsh 
hills  and  throws  itself  into  the  Dee,  my  attention  was  at 
tracted  to  a  group  seated  on  the  margin.  On  approaching, 
I  found  it  to  consist  of  a  veteran  angler  and  two  rustic  dis 
ciples.  The  former  was  an  old  fellow  with  a  wooden  leg, 
with  clothes  very  much  but  very  carefully  patched,  betok 
ening  poverty,  honestly  come  by,  and  decently  maintained. 
His  face  bore  the  marks  of  former  storms,  but  present  fair 
weather;  its  furrows  had  been  worn  into  an  habitual  smile; 
his  iron-gray  locks  hung  about  his  ears,  and  he  had  alto 
gether  the  good-humored#ir  of  a  constitutional  philosopher, 
who  was  disposed  to  take  the  world  as  it  went.  One  of  his 
companions  was  a  ragged  wight,  with  the  skulking  look  of 
an  ardent  poacher,  and  I'll  warrant  could  find  his  way  to 
any  gentleman's  fish-pond  in  the  neighborhood  in  the 
darkest  night.  The  other  was  a  tall,  awkward,  country  lad, 


THE  ANGLER.  297 

with  a  lounging  gait,  and  apparently  somewhat  of  a  rustic 
beau.  The  old  man  was  busied  examining  the  maw  of  a 
trout  which  he  had  just  killed,  to  discover  by  its  contents 
what  insects  were  seasonable  for  bait;  and  was  lecturing  on 
the  subject  to  his  companions,  who  appeared  to  listen  with 
infinite  deference.  I  have  a  kind  feeling  toward  all 
"brothers  of  the  angle,"  ever  since  I  read  Izaak  Walton. 
They  are  men,  he  affirms,  of  a  "  mild,  sweet,  and  peaceable 
spirit;"  and  my  esteem  for  them  has  been  increased  since  I 
met  with  an  old  "  Tretyse  of  fishing  with  the  Angle,"  in 
which  are  set  forth  many  of  the  maxims  of  their  inoffensive 
fraternity.  "Take  goode  hede,"  sayth  this  honest  littte 
tretyse,  "that  in  going  about  your  disportes  ye  open  no 
man's  gates  but  that  ye  shet  them  again.  Also  ye  shall  not 
use  this  foresaid  crafti  disport  for  no  covetousness  to  the  in 
creasing  and  sparing  of  your  money  only,  but  principally 
for  your  solace  and  to  cause  the  helth  of  your  body  and 
specyally  of  your  soule."* 

I  thought  that  J  could  perceive  in  the  veteran  angler  be 
fore  me  an  exemplification  of  what  I  had  read;  and  there 
was  a  cheerful  contentedness  in  his  looks,  that  quite  drew 
me  towards  him.  I  could  not  but  remark  the  gallant  man 
ner  in  which  he  stumped  from  one  part  of  the  brook  to 
another;  waving  his  rod  in  the  air,  to  keep  the  line  from 
dragging  on  the  ground,  or  catching  among  the  bushes; 
and  the  adroitness  with  which  he  would  throw  his  fly  to 
any  particular  place:  sometimes  skimming  it  lightly  along 
a  little  rapid;  sometimes  casting  it  into  one  of  those  dark 
holes  made  by  a  twisted  root  or  overhanging  bank,  in 
which  the  large  trout  are  apt  to  lurk.  In  the  meanwhile, 
he  was  giving  instructions  to  his  two  disciples;  showing 
them  the  manner  in  which  they  should  handle  their  rods, 
fix  their  flies,  and  play  them  along  the  surface  of  the  stream. 
The  scene  brought  to  my  mind  the  instructions  of  the  sage 
Piscator  to  his  scholar.  The  country  around  was  of  that 
pastoral  kind  which  Walton  is  fond  of  describing.  It  was 
a  part  of  the  great  plain  of  Cheshire,  close  by  the  beautiful 

*  From  this  same  treatise,  it  would  appear  that  angling  is  a  more  industri 
ous  and  devout  employment  than  it  is  generally  considered.  "  For  when  j  o 
purpose  to  go  on  your  disportes  in  lishyrige,  ye  will  not  desyre  greatlye  many 
persons  with  you,  which  might  let  you  of  your  game.  And  that  ye  may  serve 
God  devoutly  in  sayinge  effectually  your  customable  prayers.  And  thus  doy- 
ing,  ye  shall  eschew  and  also  avoyde  many  vices,  as  yuleness,  which  is  a  prin- 
cipall  cause  to  induce  man  to  many  other  vices,  as  it  is  right  well  known." 


298  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

vale  of  Gessford,  and  just  where  the  inferior  Welsh  hills 
begin  to  swell  up  from  among  fresh-smelling  meadows. 
The  day,  too,  like  that  recorded  in  his  work,  was  mild  and 
sunshiny;  with  now  and  then  a  soft  dropping  shower,  that 
sowed  the  whole  earth  with  diamonds. 

I  soon  fell  into  conversation  with  the  old  angler,  and 
was  so  much  entertained,  that,  under  pretext  of  receiving 
instructions  in  his  art,  I  kept  company  with  him  almost  the 
whole  day;  wandering  along  the  banks  of  the  stream,  and 
listening  to  his  talk.  He  was  very  communicative,  having 
all  the  easy  garrulity  of  cheerful  old  age,  and  I  fancy  was 
a  little  nattered  by  having  an  opportunity  of  display 
ing  his  piscatory  lore;  for  who  does  not  like  now  and  then 
to  play  the  sage? 

He  had  been  much  of  a  rambler  in  his  day,  and  had 
passed  some  years  of  his  youth  in  America,  particularly  in 
Savannah,  where  he  had  entered  into  trade,  and  had  been 
ruined  by  the  indiscretion  of  a  partner.  He  had  after 
wards  experienced  many  ups  and  downs  in  life,  until  he 
got  into  the  navy,  where  his  leg  was  carried  away  by  a  can 
non-ball,  at  the  battle  of  Camperdown.  This  was  the  only 
stroke  of  real  good  fortune  he  had  ever  experienced,  for  it 
got  him  a  pension,  which,  together  with  some  small  pater 
nal  property,  brought  him  in  a  revenue  of  nearly  forty 
pounds.  On  this  he  retired  to  his  native  village,  where  he 
lived  quietly  and  independently,  and  devoted  the  remainder 
of  his  life  to  the  "noble  art  of  angling." 

I  found  that  he  had  read  Izaak  Walton  attentively,  and 
he  seemed  to  have  imbibed  all  his  simple  frankness  and 
prevalent  good  humor.  Though  he  had  been  sorely  buffeted 
about  the  world,  he  was  satisfied  that  the  world,  in  itself, 
was  good  and  beautiful.  Though  he  had  been  as  roughly 
used  in  different  countries  as  a  poor  sheep  that  is  fleeced  by 
every  hedge  and  thicket,  yet  he  spoke  of  every  nation  with 
candor  and  kindness,  appearing  to  look  only  on  the  good 
side  of  things;  and  above  all,  he  was  almost  the  only  man 
I  had  ever  met  witli  who  had  been  an  unfortunate  advent 
urer  in  America,  and  had  honesty  and  magnanimity  enough 
to  take  the  fault  to  his  own  door,  and  not  to  curse  the 
country. 

The  lad  that  was  receiving  his  instructions  I  learnt  was 
the  son  and  heir  apparent  of  a  fat  old  widow,  who  kept  the 


THE  ANGLER.  299 

village  inn,  and  of  course  a  youth  of  some  expectation,  and 
much  courted  by  the  idle,  gentleman-like  personages  of  the 
place.  In  taking  him  under  his  care,  therefore,  the  old 
man  had  probably  an  eye  to  a  privileged  corner  in  the  tap 
room,  and  an  occasional  cup  of  cheerful  ale  free  of  expense. 

There  is  certainly  something  in  angling,  if  we  could  fur- 
get,  which  anglers  are  apt  to  do,  the  cruelties  and  tortures 
inflicted  on  worms  and  insects,  that  tends  to  produce  a  gen 
tleness  of  spirit,  and  a  pure  serenity  of  mind.  As  the  Eng 
lish  are  methodical  even  in  their  recreations,  and  are  the 
most  scientific  of  sportsmen,  it  has  been  reduced  among 
them  to  perfect  rule  and  system.  Indeed,  it  is  an  amuse 
ment  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  mild  and  cultivated  scenery 
of  England,  where  every  roughness  has  been  softened  away 
from  the  landscape.  It  is  delightful  to  saunter  along  those 
limpid  streams  which  wander,  like  veins  of  silver,  through 
the  bosom  of  this  beautiful  country;  leading  one  through 
a  diversity  of  small  home  scenery;  sometimes  winding 
through  ornamented  grounds;  sometimes  brimming  along 
through  rich  pasturage,  where  the  fresh  green  is  mingled 
with  sweet-smelling  flowers;  sometimes  venturing  in  sight 
of  villages  and  hamlets;  and  then  runnning  capriciously 
away  into  shady  retirements.  The  sweetness  and  serenity 
of  nature,  and  the  quiet  watchfulness  of  the  sport,  gradu 
ally  bring  on  pleasant  fits  of  musing;  which  are  now  and 
then  agreeably  interrupted  by  the  song  of  a  bird;  the 
distant  whistle  of  the  peasant;  or  perhaps  the  vagary  of 
some  fish,  leaping  out  of  the  still  water,  and  skimming 
transiently  about  its  glassy  surface.  "When  I  would  be 
get  content,"  says  Izaak  Walton,  "and  increase  confidence 
in  the  power  and  wisdom  and  providence  of  Almighty  God, 
I  will  walk  the  meadows  by  some  gliding  stream,  and  there 
contemplate  the  lilies  that  take  no  care,  and  those  very 
many  other  little  living  creatures  that  are  not  only  created, 
but,  fed,  (man  knows  not  how)  by  the  goodness  of  the  God 
of  nature,  and  therefore  trust  in  him." 

I  cannot  forbear  to  give  another  quotation  from  one  of 
those  ancient  champions  of  angling  which  breathes  the 
same  innocent  and  happy  spirit: 

Let  me  live  harmlessly,  and  near  the  brink 
Of  Trent  or  Avon  have  a  dwelling-place: 


300  THE  SKETCH-BOOS. 

Where  I  may  see  my  quill,  or  cork  down  sink, 
With  eager  bite  of  Pike,  or  Bleak,  or  Dace, 

And  on  the  world  and  my  creator  think; 

While  some  men  strive  ill-gotten  goods  t'  embrace; 

And  others  spend  their  time  in  base  excess 
Of  wine,  or  worse,  in  war  or  wantonness. 

Let  them  that  will,  these  pastimes  still  pursue, 
And  on  such  pleasing  fancies  feed  their  fill, 

So  I  the  fields  and  meadows  green  may  view, 
And  daily  by  fresh  rivers  walk  at  will 

Among  the  daisies  and  the  violets  blue, 
Red  hyacinth  and  yellow  daffodil.  * 

On  parting  with  the  old  angler,  I  inquired  after  his 
place  of  abode,  and  happening  to  be  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  village  a  few  evenings  afterwards,  I  had  the  curiosity 
to  seek  him  out.  I  found  him  living  in  a  small  cottage,  con 
taining  only  one  room,  but  a  perfect  curiosity  in  its  method 
and  arrangement.  It  was  on  the  skirts  of  the  village,  on 
a  green  bank  a  little  back  from  the  road,  with  a  small 
garden  in  front,  stocked  with  kitchen-herbs,  and  adorned 
with  a  few  flowers.  The  whole  front  of  the  cottage  was 
overrun  with  a  honeysuckle.  On  the  top  was  a  ship  for  a 
weathercock.  The  interior  was  fitted  up  in  a  truly  nautical 
style,  his  ideas  of  comfort  and  convenience  having  been  ac 
quired  on  the  berth-deck  of  a  man-of-war.  A  hammock 
was  slung  from  the  ceiling,  which  in  the  day-time  was 
lashed  up  so  as  to  take  but  little  room.  From  the  centre 
of  the  chamber  hung  a  model  of  a  ship,  of  his  own  work 
manship.  Two  or  three  chairs,  a  table,  and  a  large  sea- 
chest,  formed  the  principal  movables.  About  the  walls 
were  stuck  up  naval  ballads,  such  as  Admiral  Hosier's 
Ghost,  All  in  the  Downs,  and  Tom  Bowling,  intermingled 
with  pictures  of  sea-fights,  among  which  the  battle  of 
Camperdown  held  a  distinguished  place.  The  mantel 
piece  was  decorated  with  sea-shells;  over  which  hung  a 
quadrant,  flanked  by  two  wood-cuts  of  most  bitter-looking 
naval  commanders.  His  implements  for  angling  were 
carefully  disposed  on  nails  and  hooks  about  the  room.  On 
a  shelf  was  arranged  his  library,  containing  a  work  on  an 
gling,  much  worn;  a  bible  covered  with  canvas;  an  odd  vol 
ume  or  two  of  voyages;  a  nautical  almanac;  and  a  book  of 
songs. 

*  J.  Dayors. 


TEE  ANGLER.  301 

His  family  consisted  of  a  large  black  cat  with  one  eye, 
and  a  parrot  which  he  had  caught  and  tamed,  and  edu 
cated  himself,  in  the  course  of  one  of  his  voyages;  and 
which  uttered  a  variety  of  sea  phrases,  with  the  hoarse  rat 
tling  tone  of  a  veteran  boatswain.  The  establishment  re 
minded  me  of  that  of  the  renowned  Eobinson  Crusoe;  it 
was  kept  in  neat  order,  everything  being  "stowed  away" 
with  the  regularity  of  a  ship  of  war;  and  he  informed  me 
that  he  "scoured  the  deck  every  morning,  and  swept  it  be 
tween  meals." 

I  found  him  seated  on  a  bench  before  the  door,  smoking 
his  pipe  in  the  soft  evening  sunshine.  His  cat  was  purring 
soberly  on  the  threshold,  and  his  parrot  describing  some 
strange  evolutions  in  an  iron  ring,  that  swung  in  the  centre 
of  his  cage.  He  had  been  angling  all  day,  and  gave  me  a 
history  of  his  sport  with  as  much  minuteness  as  a  general 
would  talk  over  a  campaign;  being  particularly  animated 
in  regulating  the  manner  in  which  he  had  taken  a  large 
trout,  which  had  completely  tasked  all  his  skill  and  wari 
ness,  and  which  he  had  sent  as  a  trophy  to  mine  hostess  of 
the  inn. 

How  comforting  it  is  to  see  a  cheerful  and  contented  old 
age;  and  to  behold  a  poor  fellow,  like  this,  after  being 
tempest-tost  through  life,  safely  moored  in  a  snug  and  quiet 
harbor  in  the  evening  of  his  days!  His  happiness,  however, 
sprung  from  within  himself,  and  was  independent  of  ex 
ternal  circumstances;  for  he  had  that  inexhaustible  good 
nature,  which  is  the  most  precious  gift  of  Heaven;  spread 
ing  itself  like  oil  over  the  troubled  sea  of  thought,  and 
keeping  the  mind  smooth  and  equable  in  the  roughest 
weather. 

On  inquiring  farther  about  him,  I  learnt  that  he  was 
a  universal  favorite  in  the  village,  and  the  oracle  of  the 
tap-room;  where  he  delighted  the  rustics  with  his  songs, 
and,  like  Sinbad,  astonished  them  with  his  stories  of 
strange  lands,  and  shipwrecks,  and  sea-fights.  He  was 
much  noticed  too  by  gentlemen  sportsmen  of  the  neigh 
borhood;  had  taught  several  of  them  the  art  of  angling; 
and  was  a  privileged  visitor  to  their  kitchens.  The  whole 
tenor  of  his  life  was  quiet  and  inoffensive,  being  principally 
passed  about  the  neighboring  streams,  when  the  weather 
and  season  were  favorable;  and  at  other  times  he  employed 


302  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

himself  at  home,  preparing  his  fishing  tackle  for  the  next 
campaign,  or  manufacturing  rods,  nets  and  flies,  for  his 
patrons  and  pupils  among  the  gentry. 

He  was  a  regular  attendant  at  church  on  Sundays,  though 
he  generally  fell  asleep  during  the  sermon.  He  had  made 
it  his  particular  request  that  when  he  died  he  should  be 
buried  in  a  green  spot,  which  he  could  see  from  his  seat  in 
church,  and  which  he  had  marked  out  ever  since  lie  was  a 
boy,  and  had  thought  of  when  far  from  home  on  the  raging 
sea,  in  danger  of  being  food  for  the  fishes — it  was  the  spot 
where  his  father  and  mother  had  been  buried. 

I  have  done,  for  I  fear  that  my  reader  is  growing  weary; 
but  I  could  not  refrain  from  drawing  the  picture  of  this 
worthy  "  brother  of  the  angle;"  who  has  made  me  more 
than  ever  in  love  with  the  theory,  though  I  fear  I  shall 
never  be  adroit  in  the  practice  of  his  art;  and  I  will  con 
clude  this  rambling  sketch  in  the  words  of  holiest  Izaak 
Walton,  by  craving  the  blessing  of  St.  Peter's  master  upon 
my  reader,  "and  upon  all  that  are  true  lovers  of  virtue; 
and  dare  trust  in  his  providence;  and  be  quiet;  and  go  a 
angling/' 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  303 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW. 

(FOUND  AMONG   THE    PAPERS  OF   THE   LATE   DIEDRICH 
KNICKERBOCKER.) 

A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy  head  it  was, 
Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut  eye; 
And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 
Forever  flushing  round  a  summer  sky. 

Caxtle  of  Indolence. 

IN  the  bosom  of  one  of  those  spacious  coves  which  in 
dent  the  eastern  shore  of  the  Hudson,  at  that  broad  expan 
sion  of  the-  river  denominated  by  the  ancient  Dutch  navi 
gators  the  Tappan  Zee,  and  where  they  always  prudently 
shortened  sail,  and  implored  the  protection  of  St.  Nicholas 
when  they  crossed,  there  lies  a  small  market  town  or  rural 
port,  which  by  some  is  called  Greensburgh,  but  which  is 
more  generally  and  properly  known  by  the  name  of  Tarry 
Town.  This  name  was  given  it,  we  are  told,  in  former 
days,  by  the  good  housewives  of  the  adjacent  country, 
from  the  inveterate  propensity  of  their  husbands  to  linger 
about  the  village  tavern  on  market  days.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
1  do  not  vouch  for  the  fact,  but  merely  advert  to  it,  for  the 
sake  of  being  precise  and  authentic.  Not  ar  from  this 
village,  perhaps  about  three  miles,  there  is  a  little  valley  or 
rather  lap  of  land  among  high  hills,  which  is  one  of  the 
quietest  places  in  the  whole  world.  A  small  brook  glides 
through  it,  with  just  murmur  enough  to  lull  one  to  repose; 
and  the  occasional  whistle  of  a  quail, or  tapping  of  a  wood 
pecker,  is  almost  the  only  sound  that  ever  breaks  in  upon 
the  uniform  tranquillity. 

I  recollect  that,  when  a  stripling,  rny  first  exploit  in 
squirrel-shooting  was  in  a  grove  of  tall  walnut-trees  that 
shades  one  side  of  the  valley.  I  had  wandered  into  it  at 
noon-time,  when  all  nature  is  peculiarly  quiet,  and  was 
startled  by  the  roar  of  my  own  gun.  as  it  broke  the  sabbath 


304  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

stillness  around,  and  was  prolonged  and  reverberated  by 
the  angry  echoes.  If  ever  I  should  wish  for  a  retreat 
whither  I  might  steal  from  the  world  and  its  distractions, 
and  dream  quietly  away  the  remnant  of  a  troubled  life,  I 
know  of  none  more  promising  than  this  little  ralley. 

From  the  listless  repose  of  the  place,  and  the  peculiar 
character  of  its  inhabitants,  who  are  descendants  from  the 
original  Dutch  settlers,  this  sequestered  glen  has  long  been 
known  by  the  name  of  SLEEPY  HOLLOW,  and  its  rustic  lads 
are  called  the  Sleepy  Hollow  Boys  throughout  all  the 
neighboring  country.  A  drowsy,  dreamy  influence  seems 
to  hang  over  the  land,  and  to  pervade  the  very  atmosphere. 
Some  say  that  the  place  was  bewitched  by  a  high  German 
doctor,  during  the  early  days  of  the  settlement;  others,  that 
an  old  Indian  chief,  the  prophet  or  wizard  of  his  tribe,  held 
his  powwows  there  before  the  country  was  discovered  by 
Master  Hendrick  Hudson.  Certain  it  is  the  place  still  con 
tinues  under  the  sway  of  some  witching  power,  that  holds 
a  spell  over  the  minds  of  the  good  people,  causing  them  to 
walk  in  a  continual  reverie.  They  are  given  to  all  kinds  of 
marvellous  beliefs;  are  subject  to  trances  and  visions,  and 
frequently  see  strange  sights,  and  hear  music  and  voices  in 
the  air.  The  whole  neighborhood  abounds  with  local  tales, 
haunted  spots,  and  twilight  superstitions;  stars  shoot  and 
meteors  glare  oftener  across  the  valley  than  in  any 
other  part  of  the  country,  and  the  nightmare,  with  her 
whole  nine  fold,  seems  to  make  it  the  favorite  scene  of  her 
gambols. 

The  dominant  spirit,  however,  that  haunts  this  enchanted 
region,  and  seems  to  be  Commander-in-chief  of  all  the 
powers  of  the  air,  is  the  apparition  of  a  figure  on  horse 
back  without  a  head.  It  is  said  by  some  to  be  the  ghost  of 
a  Hessian  trooper,  whose  head  had  been  carried  away  by  a 
cannon-ball,  in  some  nameless  battle  during  the  revolution 
ary  war,  and  who  is  ever  and  anon  seen  by  the  country 
folk,  hurrying  along  in  the  gloom  of  night,  as  if  on  the 
wind.  His  haunts  are  not  confined  to  the  valley,  but  ex 
tend  at  times  to  the  adjacent  roads,  and  especially  to  the 
vicinity  of  a  church  that  is  at  no  great  distance.  Indeed, 
certain  of  the  most  authentic  historians  of  those  parts,  who 
have  been  careful  in  collecting  and  collating  the  floating 
facts  concerning  this  spectre,  allege,  that  the  body  of  the 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  305 

trooper  having  been  in  the  churchyard,  the  ghost  rides  forth 
to  the  scene  of  battle  in  nightly  quest  of  his  head,  and  that 
the  rushing  speed  with  which  he  sometimes  passes  along 
the  hollow,  like  a  midnight  blast,  is  owing  to  his  being 
belated,  and  in  a  hurry  to  get  back  to  the  churchyard  be 
fore  daybreak. 

Such  is  the  general  purport  of  this  legendary  supersti 
tion,  which  has  furnished  materials  for  many  a  wild  story 
in  that  region  of  shadows;  and  the  spectre  is  known  at  all 
the  country  firesides,  by  the  name  of  the  Headless  Horse 
man  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 

It  is  remarkable,  that  the  visionary  propensity  I  have 
mentioned  is  not  confined  to  the  native  inhabitants  of  the 
valley,  but  is  unconsciously  imbibed  by  everyone  who  resides 
there  for  a  time.  However  wide  awake  they  may  have 
been  before  they  entered  that  sleepy  region,  they  are  sure, 
in  a  little  time,  to  inhale  the  witching  influence  of  the  air, 
and  begin  to  grow  imaginative — to  dream  dreams,  and  see 
apparitions. 

I  mention  this  peaceful  spot  with  all  possible  laud;  for  it 
is  in  such  little  retired  Dutch  valleys,  found  here  and  there 
embosomed  in  the  great  State  of  New  York,  that  popula 
tion,  manners,  and  customs  remain  fixed,  while  the  great 
torrent  of  migration  and  improvement,  which  is  making 
such  incessant  changes  in  other  parts  of  this  restless  coun 
try,  sweeps  by  them  unobserved.  They  are  like  those  little 
nooks  of  still  water,  which  border  a  rapid  stream,  where  we 
may  see  the  straw  and  bubble  riding  quietly  at  anchor,  or 
slowly  revolving  in  their  mimic  harbor,  undisturbed  by  the 
rush  of  the  passing  current.  Though  many  years  have 
elapsed  since  I  trod  the  drowsy  shades  of  Sleepy  Hollow, 
yet  I  question  whether  I  should  not  find  the  same  trees  and 
the  same  families  vegetating  in  its  sheltered  bosom. 

In  this  by-place  of  nature  there  abode,  in  a  remote  pe 
riod  of  American  history,  that  is  to  say,  some  thirty  years 
since,  a  worthy  wight  of  the  name  of  Ichabod  Crane,  who 
sojourned,  or,  as  he  expressed  it,  "tarried,"  in  Sleepy  Hol 
low,  for  the  purpose  of  instructing  the  children  of  the  vicin 
ity.  He  was  a  native  of  Connecticut,  a  State  which 
supplies  the  Union  with  pioneers  for  the  mind  as  well  as 
for  the  forest,  and  sends  forth  yearly  its  legions  of  frontier 
woodmen  and  country  schoolmasters.  The  cognomen  of 


306  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Crane  was  not  inapplicable  to  his  person.  He  was  tall,  but 
exceedingly  lank,  with  narrow  shoulders,  long  arms  and 
legs,  hands  that  dangled  a  mile  out  of  his  sleeves,  feet  that 
might  have  served  for  shovels,  and  his  whole  frame  most 
loosely  hung  together.  His  head  was  small,  and  flat  at  top, 
with  huge  ears,  large  green  glassy  eyes,  and  a  long  snipe 
nose,  so  that  it  looked  like  a  weathercock  perched  upon  his 
spindle  neck,  to  tell  which  way  the  wind  blew.  To  see  him 
striding  along  the  profile  of  a  hill  on  a  windy  day,  with  his 
clothes  bagging  and  fluttering  about  him,  one  might  have 
mistaken  Jiim  for  the  genius  of  famine  descending  upon  the 
earth,  or  some  scarecrow  eloped  from  a  cornfield. 

His  school-house  was  a  low  building  of  one  large  room, 
rudely  constructed  of  logs;  the  windows  partly  glazed,  and 
partly  patched  with  leafs  of  copy-books.  It  was  most  in 
geniously  secured  at  vacant  hours,  by  a  withe  twisted  in  the 
handle  of  the  door,  and  stakes  set  against  the  window-shut 
ters;  so  that  though  a  thief  might  get  in  with  perfect 
ease,  he  would  find  some  embarrassment  in  getting  out; — 
an  idea  most  probably  borrowed  by  the  architect,  Yost  Van 
Houten,  from  the  mystery  of  an  eelpot.  The  school-house 
stood  in  a  rather  lonely  but  pleasant  situation,  just  at  the 
foot  of  a  woody  hill,  with  a  brook  running  close  by,  and  a 
formidable  birch-tree  growing  at  one  end  of  it.  From 
hence  the  low  murmur  of  his  pupils'  voices,  conning  over 
their  lessons,  might  be  heard  of  a  drowsy  summer's  day,  like 
the  hum  of  a  beehive;  interrupted  now  and  then  by  the  au 
thoritative  voice  of  the  master,  in  the  tone  of  menace  or 
command;  or,  peradventure,  by  the  appalling  sound  of  the 
birch,  as  he  urged  some  tardy  loiterer  along  the  flowery 
path  of  knowledge.  Truth  to  say,  he  was  a  conscientious 
man,  that  ever  bore  in  mind  the  golden  maxim,  "  spare  the 
rod  and  spoil  the  child."  Ichabod  Crane's  scholars  cer 
tainly  were  not  spoiled. 

I  would  not  have  it  imagined,  however,  that  he  was  one 
of  those  cruel  potentates  of  the  school,  who  joy  in  the 
smart  of  their  subjects;  on  the  contrary,  he  administered 
justice  with  discrimination  rather  than  severity;  taking  the 
burden  off  the  backs  of  the  weak,  and  laying  it  on  those  of 
the  strong.  Your  mere  puny  stripling,  that  winced  at  the 
least  flourish  of  the  rod,  was  passed  by  with  indulgence; 
but  the  claims  of  justice  were  satisfied  by  inflicting  a  double 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEP  Y  HOLLO  W.  30? 

portion  on  some  little,  tough,  wrong-headed,  broad-skirted 
Dutch  urchin,  who  sulked  and  swelled  and  grew  dogged 
and  sullen  beneath  the  birch.  All  this  he  called  "doing 
his  duty  by  their  parents;"  and  he  never  inflioted  a  chastise 
ment  without  following  it  by  the  assurance  so  consolatory 
to  the  smarting  urchin,  that  "he  would  remember  it  and 
thank  him  for  it  the  longest  day  he  had  to  live/' 

When  school  hours  were  over,  he  was  even  the  compan 
ion  and  playmate  of  the  larger  boys;  and  on  holiday  after 
noons  would  convey  some  of  the  smaller  ones  home,  who 
happened  to  have  pretty  sisters  or  good  housewives  for 
mothers,  noted  for  the  comforts  of  the  cupboard.  Indeed, 
it  behooved  him  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  his  pupils. 
The  revenue  arising  from  his  school  was  small,  and  would 
have  been  scarcely  sufficient  to  furnish  him  with  daily 
bread,  for  he  was  a  huge  feeder,  and  though  lank,  had 
the  dilating  powers  of  an  anaconda;  but  to  help  out  his 
maintenance,  he  was,  according  to  country  custom  in  those 
parts,  boarded  and  lodged  at  the  houses  of  the  farmers, 
whose  children  he  instructed.  With  these  he  lived  success 
ively  a  week  at  a  time,  thus  going  the  rounds  of  the  neigh 
borhood,  with  all  his  worldly  effects  tied  up  in  a  cotton 
handkerchief. 

That  all  this  might  not  be  too  onerous  on  the  pui'ses  of 
his  rustic  patrons,  who  are  apt  to  consider  the  costs  of 
schooling  a  grievous  burden,  and  schoolmasters  as  mere 
drones,  he  had  various  ways  of  rendering  himself  both  use 
ful  and  agreeable.  He  assisted  the  farmers  occasionally 
in  the  lighter  labors  of  their  farms;  helped  to  make  hay; 
mended  the  fences;  took  the  horses  to  water;  drove  the 
cows  from  pasture;  and  cut  wood  for  the  winter  fire.  He 
laid  aside,  too,  all  the  dominant  dignity  and  absolute  sway 
with  which  he  lorded  it  in  his  little  empire,  the  school,  and 
became  wonderfully  gentle  and  ingratiating.  He  found 
favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  mothers  by  petting  the  children, 
particularly  the  youngest;  and  like  the  lion  bold,  which 
whilom  so  magnanimously  the  lamb  did  hold,  he  would  sit 
with  a  child  on  one  knee,  and  rock  a  cradle  with  his  foot 
for  whole  hours  together. 

In  addition  to  his  other  vocations,  he  was  the  singing- 
master  of  the  neighborhood,  and  picked  up  many  bright 
shillings  by  instructing  the  young  folks  in  psalmody.  It 


308  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

was  a  matter  of  no  little  vanity  to  him  on  Sundays,  to  take  ! 
his  station  in  front  of  the  church  gallery,  with  a  band  of  1 
chosen  singers;  where,  in  his  own  mind,  he  completely  car- j 
ried  away  the  palm  from  the  parson.  Certain  it  is,  his] 
voice  resounded  far  above  all  the  rest  of  the  congregation,  1 
and  there  are  peculiar  quavers  still  to  be  heard  in  that! 
church,  and  which  may  even  be  heard  half  a  mile  off,  quite  J 
to  the  opposite  side  of  the  mill-pond,  on  a  still  Sunday  | 
morning,  which  are  said  to  be  legitimately  descended  from  ] 
the  nose  of  Ichabod  Crane.  Thus,  by  divers  little  make- 1 
shifts,  in  that  ingenious  way  which  is  commonly  denom-1 
inated  "  by  hook  and  by  crook,"  the  worthy  pedagogue  got  1 
on  tolerably  enough,  and  was  thought,  by  all  who  under--] 
stood  nothing  of  the  labor  of  head-work,  to  have  a  wonderful! 
easy  life  of  it. 

The  schoolmaster  is  generally  a  man  of  some  importances 
in  the  female  circle  of  a  rural  neighborhood;  being  con-1 
sidered  a  kind  of  idle  gentleman-like  personage,  of  vastly! 
superior  taste  and  accomplishments  to  the  rough  country  | 
swains,  and,  indeed,  inferior  in  learning  only  to  the  parson.l 
His  appearance,  therefore,  is  apt  to  occasion   some   little! 
stir  at  the  tea-table  of  a  farm-house,  and  the  addition  of  al 
supernumerary  dish  of  cakes  or  sweetmeats,  or  peradvent-3 
ure,    the  parade  of  a  silver  tea-pot.    Our  man  of   letters, 'i 
therefore,    was  peculiarly  happy  in  the  smiles  of  all  thffl 
country  damsels.     How  he  would  figure  among  them  inthef 
churchyard,  between  services  on  Sundays!  gather  grapes  for 
them  from  the  wild  vines  that  overrun  the  surrounding 
trees;  reciting  for  their  amusement  all  the  epitaphs  on  thea 
tombstones;  or  sauntering  with  a  whole  bevy  of  them  along:- 
the  banks  of  the  adjacent  mill-pond;  while  the  more  bash 
ful  country  bumpkins  hung  sheepishly  back,  envying  his 
superior  elegance  and  address. 

From  his  half  itinerant  life,  also,  he  was  a  kind  of  travel 
ling  gazette,  carrying  the  whole  budget  of  local  gossi 
from  house  to  house;  so  that  his  appearance  was  alwat 
greeted  with  satisfaction.  He  was,  moreover,  esteemed  b, 
the  women  as  a  man  of  great  erudition,  for  he  had  re 
several  books  quite  through,  and  was  a  perfect  master 
Cotton  Mather's  History  of  New  England  Witchcraft,  in 
which,  by  the  way,  he  most  firmly  and  potently  believe' 

He  was,  in  fact,  an  odd  mixture  of  small  shrewdness 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEP  Y  HOLLO  W.  3 09 

simple  credulity.  His  appetite  for  the  marvellous  and  his 
powers  of  digesting  it  were  equally  extraordinary;  and  both 
had  been  increased  by  his  residence  in  this  spell -bound 
region.  No  tale  was  too  gross  or  monstrous  for  his  capa 
cious  swallow.  It  was  often  his  delight,  after  his  school 
was  dismissed  in  the  afternoon,  to  strech  himself  on  the 
rich  bed  of  clover,  bordering  the  little  brook  that  whim 
pered  by  his  school-house,  and  there  con  over  old  Mather's 
direful  tales,  until  the  gathering  dusk  of  evening  made  the 
printed  page  a  mere  mist  before  his  eyes.  Then,  as  he  wended 
his  way,  by  swamp  and  stream  and  awful  Avoodland,  to  the 
farm-house  where  he  happened  to  be  quartered,  every 
sound  of  nature,  at  that  witching  hour,  fluttered  his  excited 
imagination:  the  moan  of  the  whip-poor-will*  from  the  hill 
side;  the  boding  cry  of  the  tree-toad,  that  harbinger  of 
storm;  the  dreary  hooting  of  the  screech-owl;  or  the  sudden 
rustling  in  the  thicket  of  birds  frightened  from  their  roost. 
The  fire-flies,  too,  which  sparkled  most  vividly  in  the 
darkest  places,  now  and  then  startled  him,  as  one  of  uncom 
mon  brightness  would  stream  across  his  path;  and  if,  by 
chance,  a  huge  blockhead  of  a  beetle  came  winging  his 
blundering  flight  against  him,  the  poor  varlet  was  ready  to 
give  up  the  ghost,  with  the  idea  that  he  was  struck  with  a 
witch's  token.  His  only  resource  on  such  occasions,  either 
to  drown  thought,  or  drive  away  evil  spirits,  was  to  sing 
psalm  tunes; — and  the  good  people  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  as 
they  sat  by  their  doors  of  an  evening,  were  often  filled  with 
awe,  at  hearing  his  nasal  melody,  ' '  in  linked  sweetness 
long  drawn  out,"  floating  from  the  distant  hill,  or  along 
the  dusky  road. 

Another  of  his  sources  of  fearful  pleasure  was,  to  pass 
long  winter  evenings  with  the  old  Dutch  wives  as  they  sat 
spinning  by  the  fire,  with  a  row  of  apples  roasting  and 
sputtering  along  the  hearth,  and  listen  to  their  marvellous 
tales  of  ghosts,  and  goblins,  and  haunted  fields  and  haunted 
brooks,  and  haunted  bridges  and  haunted  houses,  and  par 
ticularly  of  the  headless  horseman,  or  galloping  Hessian  of 
the  Hollow,  as  they  sometimes  called  him.  He  would  de 
light  them  equally  by  his  anecdotes  of  witchcraft,  and  of 
the  direful  omens  and  portentous  sights  and  sounds  in  the 

*  The  whip-poor-will  is  a  bird  which  is  only  heard  at  nierht.    It  receives  its 
name  from  its  note,  which  is  thought  to  resemble  those  words. 


310  THE  SKETCH-BOOR. 

air,  which  prevailed  in  the  early  times  of  Connecticut;  and] 
would  frighten  them  wofully  with  speculations  upon  comets! 
and  shooting  stars,  and  with  the  alarming  fact  that  the] 
world  did  absolutely  turn  round,  and  that  they  were  half! 
the  time  topsy-turvy! 

But  if  there  was  a  pleasure  in  all  this,  while  snugly  cud-] 
dling  in  the  chimney  corner  of  a  chamber  that  was  all  of  at 
ruddy  glow  from  the  crackling  wood  fire,  and  where,  oil 
course,  no  spectre  dared  to  show  its  face,  it  was  dearly  pur-1 
chased  by  the  terrors  of  his  subsequent  walk  homewards,  i 
What  fearful  shapes  and  shadows  beset  his  path,  amidst  the| 
dim  and  ghastly  glare  of  a  snowy  night! — With  what  wist-] 
ful  look  did  he  eye  every  trembling  ray  of  light  streaming] 
across  the  waste  fields  from  some  distant  window! — Howl 
often  was  he  appalled  by  some  shrub  covered  with  snowJ 
which  like  a  sheeted  spectre  beset  his  very  path! — How  often] 
did  he  shrink  with  curdling  awe  at  the  sound  of  his  own! 
steps  on  the  frosty  crust  beneath  his  feet;  and  dread  to  look] 
over  his  shoulder,  lest  he  should  behold  some  uncouth] 
being  tramping  close  behind  him! — and  how  often  was  he^ 
thrown  into  complete  dismay  by  some  rushing  blast,  howl-| 
ing  among  the  trees,  in  the  idea  that  it  was  the  galloping] 
Hessian  on  one  of  his  nightly  scourings! 

All  these,  however,    were   mere   terrors  of  the  night,! 
phantoms  of  the  mind,  that  walk  in  darkness:  and  though! 
he  had  seen  many  spectres  in  his  time,  and  been  more  than!] 
once  beset  by  Satan  in  divers  shapes,  in  his   lonely  per-1 
ambulations,  yet  daylight  put  an  end  to  all  these  evils;  and] 
he  would  have  passed  a  pleasant  life  of  it,  in  despite  of  the^ 
Devil  and  all  his  works,  if  his  path  had  not  been  crossed 
by  a  being  that  causes  more  perplexity  to  mortal  man  than -\ 
ghosts,  goblins,  and  the  whole  race  of  witches  put  together; 
and  that  was — a  woman. 

Among  the  musical  disciples  who  assembled,  one  evening -j 
in  each  week,  to  receive  his  instructions  in  psalmody,  was 
Katrina  Van  Tassel,  the  daughter  and  only  child  of  a  sub 
stantial  Dutch  farmer.     She  was  a  blooming  lass  of  fresh 
eighteen;  plump  as  a  partridge;  ripe  and  melting  and  rosy- 
cheeked   as  one  of   her  father's  peaches,   and  universally  •• 
famed,  not  merety  for  her  beauty,  but  her  vast  expecta 
tions.     She  was  withal  a  little  of  a  coquette,  as  might  be] 
perceived  even  in  her  dress,  which  was  a  mixture  of  ancient^ 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  311 

and  modern  fashions,  as  most  suited  to  set  off  her  charms. 
She  wore  the  ornaments  of  pure  yellow  gold,  which  her 
great-great-grandmother  had  brought  over  from  Saardam; 
;he  tempting  stomacher  of  the  olden  time,  and  withal  a 
provokingly  short  petticoat,  to  display  the  prettiest  foot  and 
inkle  in  the  country  round. 

Ichabod  Crane  had  a  soft  and  foolish  heart  towards  the 
sex;  and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  so  tempting  a 
morsel  soon  found  favor  in  his  eyes,  more  especially  after 
ic  had  visited  her  in  her  paternal  mansion.  Old  Baltus 
Van  Tassel  was  a  perfect  picture  of  a  thriving,  contented, 
iberal-hearted  farmer.  He  seldom,  it  is  true,  sent  either 
:iis  eyes  or  his  thoughts  beyond  the  boundaries  of  his  own 
"arm;  but  within  these,  everything  was  snug,  happy  and 
well-conditioned,  lie  was  satisfied  with  his  wealth,  but 
not  proud  of  it;  and  piqued  himself  upon  the  hearty 
abundance,  rather  than  the  style  in  which  he  lived.  His 
stronghold  was  situated  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  in 
one  of  those  green,  sheltered,  fertile  nooks,  in  which  the 
Dutch  farmers  are  so  fond  of  nestling.  A  great  elm-tree 
spread  its  broad  branches  over  it;  at  the  foot  of  which 
bubbled  up  a  spring  of  the  softest  arid  sweetest  water,  in  a 
iittle  well,  formed  of  a  barrel;  and  then  stole  sparkling 
away  through  the  grass,  to  a  neighboring  brook,  that 
aubbled  along  among  alders  and  dwarf  willows.  Hard  by 
the  farm-house  was  a  vast  barn,  that  might  have  served  for 

church;  every  window  and  crevice  of  which  seemed 
bursting  forth  with  the  treasures  of  the  farm;  the  flail  was 
busily  resounding  within  it  from  morning  to  7iight;  swallows 
and  martins  skimmed  twittering  about  the  eaves;  and  rows 
of  pigeons,  some  with  one  eye  turned  up,  as  if  watching  the 
weather,  some  with  their  heads  under  their  wings,  or  buried 
in  their  bosoms,  and  others,  swelling,  and  cooing,  and 
bowing  about  their  dames,  were  enjoying  the  sunshine  on 
the  roof.  Sleek  unwieldy  porkers  were  grunting  in  the 
repose  and  abundance  of  their  pens,  from  whence  sallied 
forth,  now  and  then,  troops  of  sucking  pigs,  as  if  to  sniff 
the  air.  A  stately  squadron  of  snowy  geese  were  riding  in 
an  adjoining  pond,  convoying  whole  fleets  of  ducks;  regi 
ments  of  turkeys  were  gobbling  through  the  farm-yard, 
and  guinea-fowls  fretting  about  it  like  ill-tempered  house 
wives,  with  their  peevish,  discontented  cry.  Before  th« 


312  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

barn  door  strutted  the  gallant  cock,  that  pattern  of  a 
husband,  a  warrior,  and  a  fine  gentleman;  clapping  hia:' 
burnished  wings  and  crowing  in  the  pride  and  gladness  off 
his  heart — sometimes  tearing  up  the  earth  with  his  feet,| 
and  then  generously  calling  his  ever-hungry  family  OH 
wives  and  children  to  enjoy  the  rich  morsel  which  he  hadl 
discovered. 

The  pedagogue's  mouth  watered,  as  he  looked  upon  this; 
sumptuous  promise  of  luxurious  winter  fare.  In  his  deJ 
vouring  mind's  eye,  he  pictured  to  himself  every  roasting! 
pig  running  about,  with  a  pudding  in  its  belly,  and  ad 
apple  in  its  mouth;  the  pigeons  were  snugly  put  to  bed  in 
a  comfortable  pie,  and  tucked  in  with  a  coverlet  of  crusta 
the  geese  were  swimming  in  their  own  gravy;  and  thai 
ducks  pairing  cosily  in  dishes,  like  snug  married  couples,! 
with  a  decent  competency  of  onion  sauce.  In  the  porkefl 
he  saw  carved  out  the  future  sleek  side  of  bacon,  and  juicy! 
relishing  ham;  not  a  turkey,  but  he  beheld  daintily  trussed! 
up,  with  its  gizzard  under  its  wing,  and,  peradventure,  a 
necklace  of  savory  sausages;  and  even  bright  chanticleer! 
himself  lay  sprawling  on  his  back,  in  a  side  dish,  with  up-f 
lifted  claws,  as  if  craving  that  quarter  which  his  chivalrous^ 
spirit  disdained  to  ask  while  living. 

As  the  enraptured  Ichabod  fancied  all  this,  and  as  he 
rolled  his  great  green  eyes  over  the  fat  meadow  lands,  the} 
rich  fields  of  wheat,  of  rye,  of  buckwheat,  and  Indian  corn, ; 
and  the  orchards  burdened  with  ruddy  fruit,  which  sur4 
rounded  the  warm   tenement  of   Van   Tassel,   his    heart? 
yearned  after  the  damsel  who  was  to  inherit  these  domains,; 
and  his  imagination  expanded  with  the   idea,  how   they 
might  be  readily  turned  into  cash,  and  the  money  investea 
in  immense  tracts  of  wild  land,  and  shingle  palaces  in  the- 
wilderness.     Nay,  his  busy  fancy  already  realized  his  hopes, 
and  presented  to  him  the  blooming  Katrina,  with  a  whole 
family  of  children  mounted  on  the  top  of  a  wagon  loaded 
with  household  trumpery,  with  pots  and  kettles  dangling 
beneath;  and  he  beheld  himself  bestriding  a  pacing  mare, 
with  a  colt  at  her  heels,  setting  out  for  Kentucky,  Tennes 
see — or  the  Lord  knows  where! 

When  he  entered  the  house,  the  conquest  of  his  heart 
was  complete.  It  was  one  of  those  spacious  farm-houses, 
with  high-ridged,  but  lowly-sloping  roofs,  built  in  the  style 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEP  Y  HOLLO  W.  313 

handed  down  from  the  first  Dutch  settlers.  The  low  pro 
jecting  eaves  forming  a  piazza  along  the  front,  capable  of 
being  closed  up  in  bad  weather.  Under  this  were  hung 
flails,  harness,  various  utensils  of  husbandry,  and  nets  for 
fishing  in  the  neighboring  river.  Benches  were  built  along 
the  sides  for  summer  use;  and  a  great  spinning-wheel  at 
one  end,  and  a  churn  at  the  other,  showed  the  various  uses 
to  which  this  important  porch  might  be  devoted.  From 
this  piazza  the  wonderful  Ichabod  entered  the  hall,  which 
formed  the  centre  of  the  mansion,  and  the  place  of  usual 
residence.  Here,  rows  of  resplendent  pewter,  ranged  on  a 
long  dresser,  dazzled  his  eyes,  In  one  corner  stood  a  huge 
bag  of  wool,  ready  to  be  spun;  in  another,  a  quantity  of 
linsey-woolsey  just  from  the  loom;  ears  of  Indian  corn, 
and  strings  of  dried  apples  and  peaches,  hung  in  gay  fes 
toons  along  the  walls,  mingled  with  the  gaud  of  red  pep 
pers;  and  a  door  left  ajar,  gave  him  a  peep  into  the  best 
parlor,  where  the  claw-footed  chairs,  and  dark  mahogany 
tables,  shone  like  mirrors;  andirons,  with  their  accompany 
ing  shovel  and  tongs,  glistened  from  their  covert  of  aspar 
agus  tops;  mock-oranges  and  conch  shells  decorated  the 
mantelpiece;  strings  of  various  colored  birds'  eggs  were 
suspended  above  it;  a  great  ostrich  egg  was  hung  from  the 
centre  of  the  room,  and  a  corner  cupboard,  knowingly  left 
open,  displayed  immense  treasures  of  old  silver  and  well- 
mended  china. 

From  the  moment  Ichabod  laid  his  eyes  upon  these  re 
gions  of  delight,  the  peace  of  his  mind  was  at  an  end,  and 
lis  only  study  was  how  to  gain  the  affections  of  the  peer 
less  daughter  of  Van  Tassel.  In  this  enterprise,  however, 
he  had  more  real  difficulties  than  generally  fell  to  the  lot  of 
a  knight-errant  of  yore,  who  seldom  had  anything  but 
giants,  enchanters,  fiery  dragons,  and  such  like  easily  con 
quered  adversaries,  to  contend  with,  and  had  to  make  his 
way  merely  through  gates  of  iron  and  brass,  and  walls  of 
adamant  to  the  castle-keep,  where  the  lady  of  his  heart 
was  confined;  all  which  he  achieved  as  easily  as  a  man 
would  carve  his  way  to  the  centre  of  a  Christmas  pie,  and 
then  the  lady  gave  him  her  hand  as  a  matter  of  course. 
Ichabod,  on  the  contrary,  had  to  win  his  way  to  the  heart 
of  a  country  coquette,  beset  with  a  labyrinth  of  whims  and 
caprices,  which  were  forever  presenting  new  difficulties  and 


314  THE  SKETCJS-BOOK. 

impediments,  and  he  had  to  encounter  a  host  of  fearful 
adversaries  of  real  flesh  and  blood,  and  numerous  rustic 
admirers,  who  beset  every  portal  to  her  heart;  keeping  a 
watchful  and  angry  eye  upon  each  other,  but  ready  to  fly 
out  in  the  common  cause  against  any  new  competitor. 

Among  these,  the  most  formidable  was  a  burly,  roaring, 
roystering  blade,  of  the  name  of  Abraham,  or  according  to 
the  Dutch  abbreviation,  Brom  Van  Brunt,  the  hero  of  the 
country  round,  which  rung  with  his  feats  of  strength  and] 
hardihood.     He  was  broad-shouldered  and  double-jointed, 
with  short,  curly  black  hair,  and  a  bluff,  but  not  unpleasant 
countenance,  having  a  mingled  air  of  fun  and  arrogance.  < 
From  his  Herculean  frame  and  great  powers  of  limb,  he] 
had  received  the  nickname  of  BROM  BOXES,  by  which  he! 
was  universally  known.     He  was  famed  for  great  knowl-l 
edge  and  skill  in  horsemanship,  being  as  dexterous  on 
horseback  as  a  Tartar.     He  was  foremost  at  all  races  and] 
cock-fights,  and  with  the  ascendancy  which  bodily  strength ; 
always  acquires  in  rustic  life,  was  the  umpire  in  all  dis 
putes,  setting  his  hat  on  one  side,  and  giving  his  decisions; 
with  an  air  and  tone  that  admitted  of  no  gainsay  or  appeal. ' 
He  was  always  ready  for  either  a  fight  or  a  frolic;  had  more 
mischief  than  ill-will  in  his  composition;  and  with  all  his 
overbearing  roughness,  there  was  a  strong  dash  of  waggish; 
good-humor  at  bottom.     He  had  three  or  four  boon  com-; 
panions  of  his  own  stamp,  who  regarded  him  as  their  model, 
and  at  the  head  of  whom  he  scoured  the  country,  attend 
ing  every  scene  of  feud  or  merriment  for  miles  around. , 
In  cold  weather,  he  was  distinguished  by  a  fur  cap,  sur-l 
mounted  with  a  flaunting  fox's  tail;  and  when  the  folks  atj 
a  country  gathering  descried  this  well-known  crest  at  a'=j 
distance,  whisking  about  among  a  squad  of  hard   riders,^ 
they  always  stood  by  for  a  squall.     Sometimes  his  crew] 
would  be  heard  dashing  along  past  the  farm-houses  at  mid-j 
night,  with  whoop  and  halloo,  like  a  troop  of  Don  Cossacks,  I 
and  the  old  dames,  startled  out  of  their  sleep,  would  listen] 
for  a  moment  till  the  hurry-scurry  had  clattered  by,  andj 
then  exclaim,  "Ay,  there  goes  Brom  Bones  and  his  gang!"| 
The  neighbors  looked  upon  him  with  a  mixture  of  awe,] 
admiration,  and  good- will;  and  when  any  madcap  pranki 
or  rustic  brawl  occurred  in  the  vicinity,  always  shook  their] 
heads,  and  warranted  Brom  Bones  was  at  the  bottom  of  it. ' 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  315 

This  rantipole  hero  had  for  some  time  singled  out  the 
blooming  Katrina  for  the  object  of  his  uncouth  gallantries, 
and  though  his  amorous  toyings  were  something  like  the 
gentle  caresses  and  endearments  of  a  bear,  yet  it  was  whis 
pered  that  she  did  not  altogether  discourage  his  hopes. 
Certain  it  is,  his  advances  were  signals  for  rival  candidates 
to  retire,  who  felt  no  inclination  to  cross  a  lion  in  his 
amours;  insomuch,  that  when  his  horse  was  seen  tied  to 
Van  Tassel's  palings,  on  a  Sunday  night,  a  sure  sign  that 
his  master  was  courting,  or,  as  it  is  termed,  "sparking" 
within,  all  other  suitors  passed  by  in  despair,  and  carried 
the  war  into  other  quarters. 

Such  was  the  formidable  rival  with  whom  Ichabod  Crane 
had  to  contend,  and  considering  all  things,  a  stouter  man 
than  he  would  have  shrunk  from  the  competition,  and  a 
wiser  man  would  have  despaired.  He  had,  however,  a 
happy  mixture  of  pliability  and  perseverance  in  his  nature; 
he  was  in  form  and  spirit  like  a  supple-jack — yielding,  but 
tough;  though  he  bent,  he  never  broke;  and  thongh  he 
bowed  beneath  the  slightest  pressure,  yet,  the  moment  it 
was  away — jerk! — he  was  as  erect,  and  carried  his  head  as 
high  as  ever. 

To  have  taken  the  field  openly  against  his  rival  would 
have  been  madness;  for  he  was  not  a  man  to  be  thwarted 
in  his  amours,  any  more  than  that  stormy  lover,  Achilles. 
Ichabod,  therefore,  made  his  advances  in  a  quiet  and  gen 
tly-insinuating  manner.  Under  cover  of  his  character  of 
singing-master,  he  made  frequent  visits  at  the  farm-house; 
not  that  he  had  anything  to  apprehend  from  the  meddle 
some  interference  of  parents,  which  is  so  often  a  stumbling- 
block  in  the  path  of  lovers.  Bait  Van  Tassel  was  an  easy 
indulgent  soul;  he  loved  his  daughter  better  even  than  his 
pipe,  and  like  a  reasonable  man,  and  an  excellent  father, 
let  her  have  her  way  in  everything.  His  notable  little 
wife,  too,  had  enough  to  do  to  attend  to  her  housekeeping 
and  manage  the  poultry;  for,  as  she  sagely  observed,  ducks 
and  geese  are  foolish  things,  and  must  be  looked  after,  but 
girls  can  take  care  of  themselves.  Thus,  while  the  busy 
dame  bustled  about  the  house,  or  plied  her  spinning-wheel 
at  one  end  of  the  piazza,  honest  Bait  would  sit  smoking  his 
evening  pipe  at  the  other,  watching  the  achievements  of  a 
little  wooden  warrior,  who,  armed  with  a  sword  in  each  hand, 


316  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

was  most  valiantly  fighting  the  wind  on  the  pinnacle  of  the 
barn.  In  the  meantime,  Ichabod  would  carry  on  his  suit 
with  the  daugther  by  the  side  of  the  spring  under  the 
great  elm,  or  sauntering  along  in  the  twilight,  that  hour  so 
favorable  to  the  lovers  eloquence. 

I  profess  not  to  know  how  women's  hearts  are  wooed  and 
won.     To  me  they  have  always  been  matters  of  riddle  and 
admiration.     Some  seem  to  have  but  one  vulnerable  point, 
or  doer  of  access;  while  others  have  a  thousand  avenues, 
and  may  be  captured  in  a  thousand  different  ways.      It  is  a 
great  triumph  of  skill  to  gain  the  former,  but  a  still  greater 
proof  of  generalship  to  maintain  possession  of  the  latter,  for 
a  man  must  battle  for  his  fortress  at  every  door  and  window. 
He  that  wins  a  thousand  common  hearts,  is  therefore  en 
titled  to  some  renown;  but  he  who  keeps  undisputed  sway 
over  the  heart  of  a  coquette,  is  indeed  a  hero.  Certain  it  is,  j 
this  was  not  the  case  with  the  redoubtable  Brom  Bones;' 
and  from  the  moment  Ichabod  Crane  made  his  advances, ; 
the  interests  of  the  former  evidently  declined:  his  horse  j 
was  no  longer  seen  tied  at  the  palings  on  Sunday  nights,  \ 
and  a  deadly  feud  gradually  arose  between  him  and  the 
preceptor  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 

Brom,  who  had  a  degree  of  rough  chivalry  in  his  nature, , 
would  fain  have  carried  matters  to  open  warfare,  and  set-] 
tied  their  pretensions  to  the  lady,  according  to  the  mode  of  j 
those  most  concise  and  simple  reasoners,  the  knights-errant; 
of  yore — by  single  combat;  but  Ichabod  was  too  conscious; 
of  the  superior  might  of  his  adversary  to  enter  the  lists] 
against  him;  he  had  overheard  the  boast  of  Bones  that  he* 
would  "double  the  schoolmaster  up,  and  put  him  on  a 
shelf,"  and  he  was  too  wary  to  give  him  an  opportunity.  1 
There   was  something  extremely  provoking  in  this  obsti-'j 
nately   pacific  system;  it  left  Brom  no  alternative  but  toj 
draw  upon  the  funds  of  rustic  waggery  in  his  disposition,,! 
and  to  play  off  boorish  practical  jokes  upon  his  rival.    Ich-; 
abod  became  the  object  of  whimsical  persecutions  to  Bones- 
and  his  gang  of  rough  riders.     They  harried  his  hitherto 
peaceful  domains;  smoked  out  his  singing-school  by  stop 
ping  up  the  chimney;  broke  into  the  school-house  at  night, 
in  spite  of  its  formidable  fastenings  of  withe  and  window- 
stakes,   and  turned   everything  topsy-turvy;  so   that  thej 
poor  schoolmaster  began  to  think  all  the  witches  in  thei 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEP  T  HOLLO  W.  317 

country  held  their  meetings  there.  But  what  was  still  more 
annoying,  Brom  took  all  opportunities  of  turning  him  into 
ridicule  in  presence  of  his  mistress,  and  had  a  scoundrel  dog 
whom  he  taught  to  whine  in  the  most  ludicrous  manner, 
and  introduced  as  a  rival  of  Ichabod's,  to  instruct  her  in 
psalmody. 

In  this  way,  matters  went  on  for  some  time,  without 
producing  any  material  effect  on  the  relative  situations  of 
the  contending  powers.  On  a  fine  autumnal  afternoon, 
Ichabod,  in  pensive  mood,  sat  enthroned  on  the  lofty  stool 
from  whence  he  usually  watched  all  the  concerns  of  his  lit 
erary  realm.  In  his  hand  he  swayed  a  ferule,  that  sceptre 
of  despotic  power;  the  birch  of  justice  reposed  on  three 
nails,  behind  the  throne,  a  constant  terror  to  evil  doers; 
while  on  the  desk  before  him  might  be  seen  sundry  contra 
band  articles  and  prohibited  weapons,  detected  upon  the 
persons  of  idle  urchins;  such  as  half-munched  apples,  pop 
guns,  whirligigs,  fly-cages,  and  whole  legions  of  rampant 
little  paper  game-cocks.  Apparently  there  had  been  some 
appalling  act  of  justice  recently  inflicted,  for  the  scholars 
were  all  busily  intent  upon  their  books,  or  slyly  whispering 
behind  them  with  one  eye  kept  upon  the  master;  and  a 
kink  of  buzzing  stillness  reigned  throughout  the  school 
room.  It  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of 
a  negro  in  tow-cloth  jacket  and  trowsers,  a  round  crowned 
fragment  of  a  hat,  like  the  cap  of  Mercury,  and  mounted 
on  the  back  of  a  ragged,  wild,  half-broken  colt,  which  he 
managed  with  a  rope  by  way  of  halter.  He  came  clattering 
up  to  the  school-door  with  an  invitation  to  Ichabod  to  at 
tend  a  merry-making,  or  "  quilting-f  rolic,"  to  be  held  that 
evening  at  Mynheer  Van  Tassel's;  and  having  delivered  his 
message  with  that  air  of  importance,  and  effort  at  fine  lan 
guage,  which  a  negro  is  apt  to  display  on  petty  embassies  of 
the  kind,  he  dashed  over  the  brook,  and  was  seen  scamper 
ing  away  up  the  hollow,  full  of  the  importance  and  hurry 
of  his  mission. 

All  was  now  bustle  and  hubbub  in  the  late  quiet  school 
room.  The  scholars  were  hurried  through  their  lessons, 
without  stopping  at  trifles;  those  who  were  nimble,  skipped 
over  half  ,with  impunity,  and  those  who  were  tardy,  had  a 
smart  application  now  and  then  in  the  rear,  to  quicken 
their  speed,  or  help  them  over  a  tall  word.  Books  were 


318  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

flung  aside,  without  being  put  away  on  the  shelves;  ink 
stands  were  overturned,   benches  thrown  down,  and  the' 
whole  school  was  turned  loose  an  hour  before  the  usual 
time;  bursting  forth  like  a  legion  of  young  imps,  yelping 
and  racketing  about  the  green,  in  joy  at  their  early  emauci- : 
pation. 

The  gallant  Ichabod  now  spent  at  least  an  extra  half-hour 
at  his  toilet,  brushing  and  furbishing  up  his  best,  and  in-j 
deed  only  suit  of  rusty  black,  and  arranging  his  looks  by  a 
bit  of  broken  looking-glass,  that  hung  up  in  the  school- 
house.  That  he  might  make  his  appearance  before  his- 
mistress  in  the  true  style  of  a  cavalier,  he  borrowed  a  horse 
from  the  farmer  with  whom  he  wasdomiciliated,a  choleric] 
old  Dutchman,  of  the  name  of  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  thus! 
gallantly  mounted,  issued  forth  like  a  knight-errant  in 
quest  of  adventures.  But  it  is  meet  I  should,  in  the  true] 
spirit  of  romantic  story,  give  some  account  of  the  looks  and 
equipments  of  my  hero  and  his  steed.  The  animal  he  be-j 
strode  was  a  broken-down  plough-horse,  that  had  outlived 
almost  everything  but  his  viciousness.  He  was  gaunt  and: 
shagged,  with  a 'ewe  neck  and  a  head  like  a  hammer;  his 
rusty  mane  and  tail  were  tangled  and  knotted  with  burrs; 
one  eye  had  lost  its  pupil,  and  was  glaring  and  spectral, 
but  the  other  had  the  gleam  of  a  genuine  devil  in  it.  Still; 
he  must  have  had  fire  and  mettle  in  his  day,  if  we  may] 
judge  from  his  name,  which  was  Gunpowder.  He  had,  in 
fact,  been  a  favorite  steed  of  his  master's,  the  choleric  Van] 
Ripper,  who  was  a  furious  rider,  and  had  infused,  very, 
probably,  some  of  his  own  spirit  into  the  animal;  for,  old.] 
and  broken-down  as  he  looked,  there  was  more  of  the  lurk- • 
ing  devil  in  him  than  in  any  young  filly  in  the  country. 

Ichabod  was  a  suitable  figure  for  such  a  steed.  He  rode 
with  short  stirrups,  which  brought  his  knees  nearly  up  to^ 
the  pommel  of  the  saddle:  his  sharp  elbows  stuck  out  like 
grasshoppers';  he  carried  his  whip  perpendicularly  in  his 
hand,  like  a  sceptre,  and  as  the  horse  jogged  on,  the  motion 
of  his  arms  was  not  unlike  the  flapping  of  a  pair  of  wings. 
A  small  wool  hat  rested  on  the  top  of  his  nose,  for  so  his; 
scanty  strip  of  forehead  might  be  called,  and  the  skills 
of  his  black  coat  fluttered  out  almost  to  the  horse's  tail. 
Such  was  the  appearance  of  Ichabod  and  his  steed  as  they 
shambled  out  of  the  gate  of  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  it  waa 


TEE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEP  Y  SOLLO  TP.  319 

altogether  such  an  apparition  as  is  seldom  to  be  met  with  in 
broad  daylight. 

It  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  fine  autnmual  day;  the  sky  was 
clear  and  serene,  and  nature  wore  that  rich  and  golden 
livery  which  we  always  associate  with  the  idea  of  abundance. 
The  forests  had  put  on  their  sober  brown  and  yellow,  while 
some  trees  of  the  tenderer  kind  had  been  nipped  by  the 
frosts  into  brilliant  dyes  of  orange,  purple,  and  scarlet. 
Streaming  files  of  wild  ducks  began  to  make  their  appear 
ance  high  in  the  air;  the  bark  of  the  squirrel  might  be 
heard  from  the  groves  of  beech  and  hickory-nuts,  and  the 
pensive  whistle  of  the  quail  at  intervals  from  the  neighbor 
ing  stubble  field. 

The  small  birds  were  taking  their  farewell  banquets.  In 
the  fullness  of  their  revelry,  they  fluttered,  chirping  and 
frolicking,  from  bush  to  bush,  and  tree  to  tree,  capricious 
from  the  very  profusion  and  variety  around  them.  There 
ivas  the  honest  cockrobin,  the  favorite  game  of  stripling 
sportsmen,  with  its  loud  querulous  note,  and  the  twittering 
blackbirds  flying  in  sable  clouds;  and  the  golden- winged 
woodpecker,  with  his  crimson  crest,  his  broad  black  gorget, 
and  splendid  plumage;  and  the  cedar-bird,  with  its  red-tipt 
wings  and  yellow-tipt  tail  and  its  little  monteiro  cap  of 
feathers;  and  the  blue  jay,  that  noisy  coxcomb,  in  his  gay 
light  blue  coat  and  white  underclothes,  screaming  and 
chattering,  nodding,  and  bobbing,  and  bowing,  and  pre 
tending  to  be  on  good  terms  with  every  songster  of  the 
grove. 

As  Ichabod  jogged  slowly  on  his  way,  his  eye,  ever  open 
to  every  symptom  of  culinary  abundance,  ranged  with  de 
light  over  the  treasures  of  jolly  autumn.  On  all  sides  he 
beheld  vast  stores  of  apples,  some  hanging  in  oppressive 
opulence  on  the  trees;  some  gathered  into  baskets  and 
barrels  for  the  market;  others  heaped  up  in  rich  piles  for 
the  cider-press.  Farther  on  he  beheld  great  fields  of  Indian 
corn,  with  its  golden  ears  peeping  from  their  leafy  coverts, 
and  holding  out  the  promise  of  cakes  and  hasty-pudding; 
and  the  yellow  pumpkins  lying  beneath  them,  turning  up 
their  fair  round  bellies  to  the  sun,  and  giving  ample  pros 
pects  of  the  most  luxurious  of  pies;  and  anon  he  passed 
the  fragrant  buckwheat  fields  breathing  the  odor  of  the 
beehive;  and  as  lie  beheld  them,  soft  anticipations  stole  over 


320  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

his  mind  of  dainty  slap-jacks,  well-buttered,  and  garnished 
with  honey  or  treacle,  by  the  delicate  little  dimpled  hand 
of  Katrina  Van  Tassel. 

Thus  feeding  his  rnind  with  many  sweet  thoughts  and 
"  sugared  suppositions,"  he  journeyed  along  the  sides  of  a 
range  of  hills  which  look  out  upon  some  of  the  goodliest 
scenes  of  the  mighty  Hudson.  The  sun  gradually  wheeled 
his  broad  disk  down  in  the  west.  The  wide  bosom  of  the 
Tappan  Zee  lay  motionless  and  glassy,  excepting  that  here 
and  there  a  gentle  undulation  waved  and  prolonged  the 
blue  shadow  of  the  distant  mountain.  A  few  amber  clouds 
floated  in  the  sky,  without  a  breath  of  air  to  move  them. 
The  horizon  was  of  a  fine  golden  tint,  changing  gradually 
into  a  pure  apple  green,  and  from  that  into  the  deep  blue 
of  the  mid-heaven.  A  slanting  ray  lingered  on  the  woody 
crests  of  the  precipices  that  overhung  some  parts  of  the 
river,  giving  greater  depth  to  the  d..rk  gray  and  purple  of 
their  rocky  sides.  A  sloop  was  loitering  in  the  distance, 
dropping  slowly  down  with  the  tide,  her  sail  hanging  use 
lessly  against  the  mast;  and  as  the  reflection  of  the  sky 
gleamed  along  the  still  water,  it  seemed  as  if  the  vessel  was 
suspended  in  the  air. 

It  was  toward  evening  that  Ichabod  arrived  at  the  castle 
of  the  Herr  Van  Tassel,  which  he  found  thronged  with  the 
pride  and  flower  of  the  adjacent  country.  Old  farmers,  a 
spare  leathern-faced  race,  in  homespun  coats  and  breeches, 
blue  stockings,  huge  shoes,  and  magnificent  pewter  buckles. 
Their  brisk,  withered  little  dames,  in  close  crimped  caps, 
long-waisted  gowns,  homespun  petticoats,  with  scissors  and 
pin-cushions,  and  gay  calico  pockets  hanging  on  the  outside. 
Buxom  lasses,  almost  as  antiquated  as  their  mothers,  ex 
cepting  where  a  straw  hat,  a  fine  ribbon,  or  perhaps  a  white 
frock,  gave  symptoms  of  city  innovations.  Th  •  sons,  in 
short  square  skirted  coats,  with  rows  of  stupendous  brass 
buttons,  and  their  hair  generally  queued  in  the  fashion  of 
the  times,  especially  if  they  could  procure  an  eelskin  for 
the  purpose,  it  being  esteemed  throughout  the  country  as 
a  potent  nourisher  and  strengthener  of  the  hair. 

Brom  Bones,  however,  was  the  hero  of  the  scene,  having 
come  to  the  gathering  on  his  favorite  steed  Daredevil,  a 
creature,  like  himself,  full  of  mettle  and  mischief,  and 
which  no  one  but  himself  could  manage.  He  was,  in  fact, 


THE  LEO  END  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  321 

noted  for  preferring  vicious  animals,  given  to  all  kinds  of 
tricks  which  kept  the  rider  in  constant  risk  of  his  neck,  for 
he  held  a  tractable,  well-broken  horse  as  unworthy  of  a  lad 
of  spirit. 

Fain  would  I  pause  to  dwell  upon  the  world  of  charms 
that  burst  upon  the  enraptured  gaze  of  my  hero,  as  he  en 
tered  the  state  parlor  of  Van  Tassel's  mansion.  Not  those 
of  the  bevy -of  buxom  lasses,  with  their  luxurious  display  of 
red  and  white;  but  the  ample  charms  of  a  genuine  Dutch 
country  tea-table,  in  the  sumptuous  time  of  autumn. 
Such  heaped-up  platters  of  cakes  of  various  and  almost  in 
describable  kinds,  known  only  to  experienced  Dutch  house 
wives!  There  was  the  doughty  doughnut,  the  tender  oly- 
koek,  and  the  crisp  and  crumbling  cruller;  sweet  cakes  and 
short  cakes,  ginger  cakes  and  honey  cakes,  and  the  whole 
family  of  cakes.  And  then  there  were  apple  pies,  and 
pumpkin  pies;  besides  slices  of  ham  and  smoked  beef;  and 
moreover  delectable  dishes  of  preserved  plums,  and  peaches, 
and  pears,  and  quinces;  not  to  mention  broiled  shad  and 
roasted  chickens;  together  with  bowls  of  milk  and  cream, 
all  mingled  higgledy-piggledy,  pretty  much  as  I  have  enu 
merated  them,  with  the  motherly  tea-pot  sending  up  its 
clouds  of  vapor  from  the  midst — Heaven  bless  the  mark! 
I  want  breath  and  time  to  discuss  this  banquet  as  it  deserves, 
and  am  too  eager  to  get  on  with  my  story.  Happily, 
Ichabod  Crane  was  not  in  so  great  a  hurry  as  his  historian, 
but  did  ample  justice  to  every  dainty. 

He  was  a  kind  and  thankful  creature.  Avhose  heart  dilated 
in  proportion  as  his  skin  was?  lilled  with  good  cheer,  and 
whose  spirits  rose  with  eating,  as  some  men's  do  with 
drink.  He  could  not  help,  too,  rolling  his  large  eyes  round 
him  as  he  ate,  and  chuckling  with  the  possibility  that  he 
might  one  day  be  l>/rd  of  all  this  scene  of  almost  unimagin 
able  luxury  and  splendor.  Then,  he  thought,  how  soon 
he'd  turn  his  back  upon  the  old  school-house;  snap  his 
fingers  in  the  face  of  I^-ns  Van  Ripper,  and  every  other 
niggardly  patron,  and  kick  any  itinerant  pedagogue  out  of 
doors  that  should  dare  to  call  him  comrade! 

Old  Baltus  Van  Tassel  moved  about  among  his  guests 
with  a  face  dilated  with  content  and  good-humor,  round 
and  jolly  as  the  harvest  moon.  His  hospitable  attentions 
were  brief,  but  expressive,  being  confined  to  a  shake  of  the 


322  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

hand,  a  slap  on  the  shoulder,  a  loud  laugh,  and  a  pressing 
invitation  to  ''fall  to,  and  help  themselves." 

And  now  the  sound  of  the  music  from  the  common 
room,  or  hall,  summoned  to  the  dance.  The  musician 
was  an  old  gray-headed  negro,  who  had  been  the  itinerant 
orchestra  of  the  neighborhood  for  more  than  half  a  cen 
tury.  His  instrument  was  as  old  and  battered  as  himself. 
The  greater  part  of  the  time  he  scraped  away  on  two  or 
three  strings,  accompanying  every  movement  of  the  bow 
with  a  motion  of  the  head;  bowing  almost  to  the  ground, 
and  stamping  with  his  foot  whenever  a  fresh  couple  were 
to  start. 

Ichabod  prided  himself  upon  his  dancing  as  much  as 
upon  his  vocal  powers.  Not  a  limb,  not  a  fibre  about  him 
was  idle;  and  to  have  seen  his  loosely  hung  frame  in  full 
motion,  and  clattering  about  the  room,  you  would  have 
thought  St.  Vitus  himself,  that  blessed  patron  of  the 
dance,  was  figuring  before  you  in  person.  He  was  the  ad 
miration  of  all  the  negroes;  who,  having  gathered,  of  all 
ages  and  sizes,  from  the  farm  and  the  neighborhood,  stood 
forming  a  pyramid  of  shining  black  faces  at  every  door  and 
window;  gazing  with  delight  at  the  scene;  rolling  their 
white  eye-balls,  and  showing  grinning  rows  of  ivory  from 
ear  to  ear.  How  could  the  flogger  of  urchins  be  otherwise 
than  animated  and  joyous?  the  lady  of  his  heart  was  his 
partner  in  the  dance,  and  smiling  graciously  in  reply  to  all 
his  amorous  oglings;  while  Brom  Bones,  sorely  smitten 
with  love  and  jealousy,  sat  brooding  by  himself  in  one 
corner. 

When  the  dance  was  at  an  end,  Ichabod  was  attracted 
to  a  knot  of  the  sager  folks,  who,  with  Old  Van  Tassel, 
sat  smoking  at  one  end  of  the  piazza,  gossiping  over 
former  times,  and  drawling  out  long  stories  about  the  war. 

This  neighborhood,  at  the  time  of  which  I  am  speaking, 
was  one  of  those  highly  favored  places  which  abound  with 
chronicle  and  great  men.  The  British  and  American  line 
had  run  near  it  during  the  war;  it  had,  therefore,  been  the 
scene  of  maurading,  and  infested  with  refugees,  cow-boys, 
and  all  kind  of  border  chivalry.  Just  sufficient  time  had 
elapsed  to  enable  each  story-teller  to  dress  up  his  tale 
with  a  little  becoming  .fiction,  and,  in  the  indistinct 
ness  of  his  recollection,  to  make  himself  the  hero  of  every 
exploit. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  323 

There  was  the  story  of  Doffue  Martling,  a  large  blue- 
bearded  Dutchman,  who  had  nearly  taken  a  British  frigate 
with  an  old  iron  nine-pounder  from  a  mud  breastwork,  only 
that  his  gun  burst  at  the  sixth  discharge.  And  there  was 
an  old  gentleman  who  shall  be  nameless,  being  too  rich  a 
mynheer  to  be  lightly  mentioned,  who  in  the  battle  of 
Whiteplains,  being  an  excellent  master  of  defence,  parried 
a  musket-ball  with  a  small  sword,  insomuch  that  he  abso 
lutely  felt  it  whiz  round  the  blade,  and  glance  off  at  the 
hilt;  in  proof  of  which  he  was  ready  at  any  time  to  show 
the  sword,  with  the  hilt  a  little  bent.  There  were  several 
more  that  had  been  equally  great  in  the  field,  not  one  of 
whom  but  was  persuaded  that  he  had  a  considerable  hand  in 
bringing  the  war  to  a  happy  termination. 

But  all  these  were  nothing  to  the  tales  of  ghosts  and  ap 
paritions  that  succeeded.  The  neighborhood  is  rich  in 
legendary  treasures  of  the  kind.  Local  tales  and  supersti 
tions  thrive  best  in  these  sheltered,  long-settled  retreats; 
but  are  trampled  under  foot  by  the  shifting  throng  that 
forms  the  population  of  most  of  our  country  places.  Besides, 
there  is  no  encouragement  for  ghosts  in  most  of  our  vil 
lages,  for  they  have  scarcely  had  time  to  finish  their  first 
nap,  and  turn  themselves  in  their  graves,  before  their  sur 
viving  friends  have  travelled  away  from  the  neighborhood; 
so  that  when  they  turn  out  at  night  to  walk  their  rounds, 
they  have  no  acquaintance  left  to  call  upon.  This  is  per 
haps  the  reason  why  we  so  seldom  hear  of  ghosts  except  in 
our  long-established  Dutch  communities. 

The  immediate  cause,  however,  of  the  prevalence  of 
supernatural  stories  in  these  parts,  was  doubtless  owing  to 
the  vicinity  of  Sleepy  Hollow.  There  was  a  contagion  in 
the  very  air  that  blew  from  that  haunted  region;  it  breathed 
forth  an  atmosphere  of  dreams  and  fancies  infecting  all  the 
land.  Several  of  the  Sleepy  Hollow  people  were  present  at 
Van  Tassel's,  and,  as  usual,  were  doling  out  their  wild  and 
wonderful  legends.  Many  dismal  tales  were  told  about 
funeral  trains,  and  mourning  cries  and  wailings  heard  and 
seen  about  the  great  tree  where  the  unfortunate  Major 
Andre  was  taken,  and  which  stood  in  the  neighborhood. 
Some  mention  was  made  also  of  the  woman  in  white,  that 
haunted  the  dark  glen  at  Raven  Rock,  and  was  often  heard 
to  shriek  on  winter  nights  before  a  storm,  having  perished 


324  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

there  in  the  snow.  The  chief  part  of  the  stories,  however, 
turned  upon  the  favorite  spectre  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  the 
headless  horseman,  who  had  been  heard  several  times  of 
late,  patrolling  the  country;  and  it  is  said,  tethered  his 
horse  nightly  among  the  graves  in  the  churchyard. 

The  sequestered  situation  of  this  church  seems  always  to 
have  made  it  a  favorite  haunt  of  troubled  spirits.  It  stands 
on  a  knoll,  surrounded  by  locust-trees  and  lofty  elms,  from 
among  which  its  decent,  whitewashed  walls  shine  modestly 
forth,  like  Christian  purity,  beaming  through  the  shades  of 
retirement.  A  gentle  slope  descends  from  it  to  a  silver 
sheet  of  water,  bordered  by  high  trees,  between  which, 
peeps  may  be  caught  at  the  blue  hills  of  the  Hudson.  To 
look  upon  its  grass-grown  yard,  where  the  sunbeams  seem 
to  sleep  so  quietly,  one  would  think  that  there  at  least  the 
dead  might  rest  in  peace.  On  one  side  of  the  church  ex 
tends  a  wide  woody  dell,  along  which  raves  a  large  brook 
among  broken  rocks  and  trunks  of  fallen  trees.  Over  a 
deep  black  part  of  the  stream,  not  far  from  the  church, 
was  formerly  thrown  a  wooden  bridge;  the  road  that  led  to 
it,  and  the  bridge  itself,  were  thickly  shaded  by  overhang 
ing  trees,  which  cast  a  gloom  about  it,  even  in  the  day-time; 
but  occasioned  a  fearful  darkness  at  night.  Such  \vas  one 
of  the  favorite  haunts  of  the  headless  horseman,  and  the 
place  where  he  was  most  frequently  encountered.  The  tale 
was  told  of  old  Brouwer,  a  most  heretical  disbeliever  in 
ghosts,  how  he  met  the  horseman  returning  from  his  foray 
into  Sleepy  Hollow,  and  was  obliged  to  get  up  behind  him; 
how  they  galloped  over  bush  and  brake,  over  hill  and 
swamp,  until  they  reached  the  bridge;  when  the  horseman 
suddenly  turned  into  a  skeleton,  threw  old  Brouwer  into 
the  brook,  and  sprang  away  over  the  tree-tops  with  a  clap  of 
thunder. 

This  story  was  immediately  matched  -by  a  thrice  marvel 
lous  adventure  of  Brom  Bones,  who  made  light  of  the 
galloping  Hessian  as  an  arrant  jockey.  He  affirmed,  that 
on  returning  one  night  from  the  neighboring  village  of 
Sing-Sing,  he  had  been  overtaken  by  a  midnight  trpoper; 
that  he  had  offered  to  race  him  for  a  bowl  of  punch,  and 
should  have  won  it  too,  for  Daredevil  beat  the  goblin  horse 
all  hollow,  but  just  as  they  came  to  the  church  bridge,  the 
Hessian  bolted,  and  vanished  in  a  flash  of  fire. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  325 

All  these  tales,  told  in  that  drowsy  undertone  with  which 
men  talk  in  the  dark,  the  countenances  of  the  listeners  only 
now  arid  then  receiving  a  casual  gleam  from  the  glare  of  a 
pipe,  sunk  deep  in  the  mind  of  Ichabod.  He  repaid  them 
in  kind  with  large  extracts  from  his  invaluable  author, 
Cotton  Mather,  and  added  many  marvellous  events  that  had 
taken  place  in  his  native  State  of  Connecticut,  and  fearful 
sights  which  he  had  seen  in  his  nightly  walks  about  Sleepy 
Hollow. 

The  revel  now  gradually  broke  up.  The  old  farmers 
gathered  together  their  families  in  their  wagons,  and  were 
heard  for  some  time  rattling  along  the  hollow  roads,  and 
over  the  distant  hills.  Some  of  the  damsels  mounted  on 
pillions  behind  their  favorite  swains,  and  their  light-hearted 
laughter  mingling  with  the  clattering  of  hoofs,  echoed  along 
the  silent  woodlands,  sounding  fainter  and  fainter,  until 
they  gradually  died  away — and  the  late  scene  of  noise  and 
frolic  was  all  silent  and  deserted.  Ichabod  only  lingered 
behind,  according  to  the  custom  of  country  lovers,  to  have 
a  tete-a-tete  with  the  heiress;  fully  convinced  that  he  was 
now  on  the  high  road  to  success.  What  passed  at  this  in 
terview  I  will  not  pretend  to  say,  for  in  fact  I  do  not  know. 
Something,  however,  I  fear  me,  must  have  gone  wrong, 
for  he  certainly  sallied  forth,  after  no  very  great  interval, 
with  an  air  quite  desolate  and  chapf alien — Oh,  these  women! 
these  women!  Could  that  girl  have  been  playing  off  any  of 
her  coquettish  tricks? — Was  her  encouragement  of  the  poor 
pedagogue  all  a  mere  sham  to  secure  her  conquest  of  his  rival? 
— Heaven  only  knows,  not  I ! — Let  it  suffice  to  say,  Ichabod 
stole  forth  with  the  air  of  one  who  had  been  sacking  a  hen 
roost,  rather  than  a  fair  lady's  heart.  Without  looking  to 
the  right  or  left  to  notice  the  scene  of  rural  wealth,  on 
which  he  had  so  often  gloated,  he  went  straight  to  the 
stable,  and  with  several  hearty  cuffs  and  kicks,  roused  his 
steed  most  uncourteously  from  the  comfortable  quarters  in 
which  he  was  soundly  sleeping,  dreaming  of  mountains  of 
corn  and  oats,  and  whole  valleys  of  timothy  and  clover. 

It  was  the  very  witching  hour  of  night  that  Ichabod, 
heavy-hearted,  and  crest-fallen,  pursued  his  travel  home 
wards,  along  the  sides  of  the  lofty  hills  which  rise  above 
Tarry  Town,  and  which  he  had  traversed  so  cheerily  in  the 
afternoon.  The  hour  was  as  dismal  as  himself.  Far  below 


326  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

him  the  Tappan  Zee  spread  its  dusky  and  indistinct  waste 
of  waters,  with  here  and  there  the  tall  mast  of  a  sloop,  riding 
quietly  at  anchor  under  the  land.  In  the  dead  hush  of 
midnight,,  he  could  even  hear  the  barking  of  the  watch-dog 
from  the  opposite  shore  of  the  Hudson;  but  it  was  so  vague 
and  faint  as  only  to  give  an  idea  of  his  distance  from  this 
faithful  companion  of  man.  Now  and  then,  too,  the  long- 
drawn  crowing  of  a  cock,  accidentally  awakened,  would 
sound  far,  far  off,  from  some  farm-house  away  among  the 
hills — but  it  was  like  a  dreaming  sound  in  his  ear.  No 
sign  of  life  occurred  near  him,  but  occasionally  the  melan 
choly  chirp  of  a  cricket,  or  perhaps  the  guttural  twang  of  a 
bull-frog  from  a  neighboring  marsh,  as  if  sleeping  uncom 
fortably,  and  turning  suddenly  in  his  bed. 

All  the  stories  of  ghosts  and  goblins  that  he  had  heard  in 
the  afternoon,  now  came  crowding  upon  his  recollection. — 
The  night  grew  darker  and  darker;  the  stars  seemed  to 
sink  deeper  in  the  sky,  and  driving  clouds  occasionally  hid 
them  from  his  siglit.  He  had  never  felt  so  lonely  and  dis 
mal.  He  was,  moreover,  approaching  the  very  place  where 
many  of  the  scenes  of  the  ghost  stories  had  been  laid.  In 
the  centre  of  the  road  stood  an  enormous  tulip-tree,  which 
towered  like  a  giant  above  all  the  other  trees  of  the  neigh 
borhood,  and  formed  a  kind  of  landmark.  Its  limbs  were 
gnarled  and  fantastic,  large  enough  to  form  trunks  for 
ordinary  trees,  twisting  down  almost  to  the  earth,  and  ris 
ing  again  into  the  air.  It  was  connected  with  the  tragical 
story  of  the  unfortunate  Andre,  who  had  been  taken 
prisoner  hard  by,  and  was  universally  known  by  the  name 
of  Major  Andre's  tree.  The  common  people  regarded  it 
with  a  mixture  of  respect  and  superstition,  partly  out  of 
sympathy  for  the  fate  of  its  ill-starred  namesake,  and 
partly  from  the  tales  of  strange  sights,  and  doleful  lamenta 
tions,  told  concerning  it. 

As  Ichabod  approached  this  fearful  tree,  he  began  to 
whistle;  he  thought  his  whistle  was  answered:  it  was  but  a 
blast  sweeping  sharply  through  the  dry  branches.      As  he 
approached  a  little  nearer,  he  thought  he  saw  something 
white  hanging  in  the  midst  of  the  tree:   he   paused,  anc 
ceased  whistling;  but  on  looking  more  narrowly,  perceived 
that  it  was  a  place  where  the  tree  had  been   scathed   by 
lightning,  and  the  white  wood  laid  bare.     Suddenly   he 


THE  LEO  END  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  327 

heard  a  groan — his  teeth  chattered,  and  his  knees  smote 
against  the  saddle:  it  was  but  the  rubbing  of  one  huge 
bough  upon  another,  as  they  were  swayed  about  by  the 
breeze.  He  passed  the  tree  in  safety,  but  new  perils  lay  be 
fore  him. 

About  two  hundred  yards  from  the  tree,  a  small  brook 
crossed  the  road,  and  ran  into  a  marshy  and  thickly-wooded 
glen,  known  by  the  name  of  Wiley's  Swamp.  A  few  rough 
logs  laid  side  by  side,  served  for  a  bridge  over  this  stream. 
On  that  side  of  the  road  where  the  brook  entered  the  wood, 
a  group  of  oaks  and  chestnuts,  matted  thick  with  wild 
grape-vines,  threw  a  cavernous  gloom  over  it.  To  pass  this 
bridge  was  the  severest  trial.  It  was  at  this  identical  spot 
that  the  unfortunate  Andre  was  captured,  and  under  the 
covert  of  those  chestnuts  and  vines  were  the  sturdy  yeomen 
concealed  who  surprised  him.  This  has  ever  since  been 
considered  a  haunted  stream,  and  fearful  are  the  feelings 
of  a  school-boy  who  has  to  pass  it  alone  after  dark. 

As  he  approached  the  stream,  his  heart  began  to  thump; 
he  summoned  up,  however,  all  his  resolution,  gave  his 
horse  half  a  score  of  kicks  in  the  ribs,  and  attempted  to 
dash  briskly  across  the  bridge;  but  instead  of  starting  for 
ward,  the  perverse  old  animal  made  a  lateral  movement, 
and  ran  broadside  against  the  fence.  Ichabod,  whose  fears 
increased  with  the  delay,  jerked  the  reins  on  the  other  side, 
and  kicked  lustly  with  the  contrary  foot:  it  was  all  in  vain; 
his  steed  started,  it  is  true,  but  it  was  only  to  plunge  to  the 
opposite  of  the  road  into  a  thicket  of  brambles  and  alder- 
bushes.  The  schoolmaster  now  bestowed  both  whip  and 
heel  upon  the  starveling  ribs  of  old  Gunpowder,  who 
dashed  forwards,  snuffing  and  snorting,  but  came  to  a 
stand  just  by  the  bridge,  with  a  suddenness  that  had  nearly 
sent  his  rider  sprawling  over  his  head.  Jnst  at  this  moment 
a  splashy  tramp  by  the  side  of  the  bridge  caught  the  sensi 
tive  ear  of  Ichabod.  In  the  dark  shadow  of  the  grove,  on 
the  margin  of  the  brook,  he  beheld  something  huge,  mis-* 
shapen,  black  and  towering.  It  stirred  not,  but  seemed 
gathered  up  in  the  gloom,  like  some  gigantic  monster 
ready  to  spring  upon  the  traveller. 

The  hair  of  the  affrighted  pedagogue  rose  upon  hia 
head  with  terror.  What  was  to  be  done?  To  turn  and  fly 
was  now  too  late;  and  besides,  what  chance  was  there  of  es- 


328  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

caping  ghost  or  goblin,  if  such  it  was,  which  could  ride  up 
on  the  \vings  of  the  wind?  Sum moning  up,  therefore,  a 
show  of  courage,  he  demanded  in  stammering  accents — 
"  Who  are  you?"  He  received  no  reply.  He  repeated  his 
demand  in  a  still  more  agitated  voice.  Still  there  was  no 
answer.  Once  more  he  cudgelled  the  sides  of  the  inflexible 
Gunpowder,  and  shutting  his  eyes,  broke  forth  with  in 
voluntary  fervor  into  a  psalm  tune.  Just  then  the  shad 
owy  object  of  alarm  put  itself  in  motion,  and  with  a  scram 
ble  and  a  bound;  stood  at  once  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 
Though  the  night  was  dark  and  dismal,  yet  the  form  of  the 
unknown  might  now  in  some  degree  be  ascertained.  He 
appeared  to  be  a  horseman  of  large  dimensions,  and 
mounted  on  a  black  horse  of  powerful  frame.  He  made  no 
offer  of  molestation  or  sociability,  but  kept  aloof  on  one  side 
of  the  road,  jogging  along  on  the  blind  side  of  old  Gun 
powder,  who  had  now  got  over  his  fright  and  wayward 
ness. 

Ichabod,  who  had  no  relish  for  this  strange  midnight 
companion,  and  bethought  himself  of  the  adventure  of 
Brom  Bones  with  the  galloping  Hessian,  now  quickened 
his  steed,  in  hopes  of  leaving  him  behind.  The  stranger, 
however,  quickened  his  horse  to  an  equal  pace.  Ichabod 
pulled  up,  and  fell  into  a  walk,  thinking  to  lag  behind — 
the  other  did  the  same.  His  heart  began  to  sink  within 
him;  he  endeavored  to  resume  his  psalm  time,  but  his 
parched  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth,  and  he 
could  not  utter  a  stave.  There  was  something  in  the 
moody  and  dogged  silence  of  this  pertinacious  companion 
that  was  mysterious  and  appalling.  It  was  soon  fearfully 
accounted  for.  On  mounting  a  rising  ground,  which 
brought  the  figure  of  his  fellow-traveller  in  relief  against 
the  sky,  gigantic  in  height,  and  muffled  in  a  cloak,  Ichabod 
was  horror-struck,  on  perceiving  that  he  was  headless!  but 
his  horror  was  still  more  increased,  on  observing  that  the 
head,  which  should  have  rested  on  his  shoulders,  was  car 
ried  before  him  on  the  pommel  of  his  saddle!  His  terror 
rose  to  desperation;  he  rained  a  shower  of  kicks  and  blows 
upon  Gunpowder,  hoping,  by  a  sudden  movement,  to  give 
his  companion  the  slip — but  the  spectre  started  full  jump 
with  him.  Away,  then,  they  dashed  through  thick  and 
thin;  stones  flying  and  sparks  flashing  at  every  bound. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEP  Y  HOLLO  W.  329 

Ichabod's  flimsy  garments  fluttered  in  the  air,  as  he 
tretched  his  long  lank  body  away  over  his  h  orse's  head,  in 
the  eagerness  of  his  flight. 

They  had  now  reached  the  road  which  turns  off  to  Sleepy 
Hollow;  but  Gunpowder,  who  seemed  possessed  with  a  de 
mon,  instead  of  keeping  up  it,  made  an  opposite  turn,  and 
plunged  headlong  down  hill  to  the  left.  This  road  leads 
through  a  sandy  hollow,  shaded  by  trees  for  about  a  quarter 
of  a  mile,  where  it  crosses  the  bridge  famous  in  goblin 
story;  and  just  beyond  swells  the  green  knoll  on  which 
stands  the  whitewashed  church. 

As  yet  the  panic  of  the  steed  had  given  his  unskillful 
rider  an  apparent  advantage  in  the  chase;  but  just  as  he 
had  got  half  way  through  the  hollow,  the  girths  of  the  sad 
dle  gave  way,  and  he  felt  it  slipping  from  under  him.  He 
seized  it  by  the  pommel,  and  endeavored  to  hold  it  firm, 
but  in  vain;  and  had  just  time  to  save  himself  by  clasping 
old  Gunpowder  round  the  neck,  when  the  saddle  fell  to  the 
earth,  and  he  heard  it  trampled  under  foot  by  his  pursuer. 
For  a  moment  the  terror  of  Hans  Van  Ripper's  wrath 
passed  across  his  mind — for  it  was  his  Sunday  saddle;  but 
this  was  no  time  for  petty  fears;  the  goblin  was  hard  on  his 
haunches;  and  (unskilled  rider  that  he  was!)  he  had  much, 
ado  to  maintain  his  seat;  sometimes  slipping  on  one  side, 
sometimes  on  another,  and  sometimes  jolted  on  the  high 
ridge  of  his  horse's  backbone,  with  a  violence  that  he  verily 
feared  would  cleave  him  asunder. 

An  opening  in  the  trees  now  cheered  him  with  the  hopes 
that  the  church  bridge  was  at  hand.  The  wavering  reflec 
tion  of  a  silver  star  in  the  bosom  of  the  brook  told  him 
that  he  was  not  mistaken.  He  saw  the  walls  of  the  church 
dimly  glaring  under  the  trees  beyond.  He  recollected  the 
place  where  Brom  Bones'  ghostly  competitor  had  disap 
peared.  "  If  I  can  but  reach  that  bridge,"  thought  Icha- 
bod,  "I  am  safe/'  Just  then  he  heard  the  black  steed 
panting  and  blowing  close  behind  him;  he  even  fancied 
that  he  felt  his  hot  breath.  Another  convulsive  kick  in 
the  ribs,  and  old  Gunpowder  sprung  upon  the  bridge;  he 
thundered  over  the  resounding  planks;  he  gained  the  oppo 
site  side,  and  now  Ichabod  cast  a  look  behind  to  see  if  nis 
pursuer  should  vanish,  according  to  rule,  in  a  flash  of  fire 
and  brimstone.  Just  then  he  saw  the  goblin  rising  in  his 


330  T££  SKETCH-BOOK. 

stirrups,  and  in  the  verj  act  of  hurling  his  head  at  him. 
Ichabod  endeavored  to  dc-dge  the  horrible  missile,  but  too 
late.  It  encountered  his  cranium  with  a  tremendous  crash 
— he  was  tumbled  headlong  into  the  dust,  and  Gunpowder, 
the  black  steed,  and  the  goblin  rider,  passed  by  like  a 
whirlwind. 

The  next  morning  the  oil  horse  was  found  without  his 
saddle,  and  with  the  bridle  .mder  his  feet,  soberly  cropping 
the  grass  at  his  master's  gale.  Ichabod  did  not  make  his 
appearance  at  breakfast — dinner-hour  came,  but  no  Icha 
bod.  The  boys  assembled  «t  the  school-house,  and  strolled 
idly  about  the  banks  of  the  brook;  but  no  schoolmaster. 
Hans  Van  Ripper  now  began  to  feel  some  uneasiness  about 
the  fate  of  poor  Ichabod,  and  his  saddle.  An  inquiry  was 
set  on  foot,  and  after  diligent  investigation  they  came  upon 
his  traces.  In  one  part  of  the  road  leading  to  the  churth, 
was  found  the  saddle  trampled  in  the  dirt;  the  tracks  of 
horses'  hoofs  deeply  dented  in  the  road,  and,  evidently  at 
furious  speed,  were  traced  to  the  bridge,  beyond  which,  on 
the  bank  of  a  broad  pa/t  of  the  brook,  where  the  water  ran 
deep  and  black,  was  found  the  hat  of  the  unfortunate  Icha 
bod,  and  close  beside  it  a  shattered  pumpkin. 

The  brook  was  searched,  but  the  body  of  the  school 
master  was  not  to  be  discovered.  Hans  Van  Ripper,  as 
executor  of  his  estate,  examined  the  bundle  which  contained 
all  his  worldly  effects.  They  consisted  of  two  shirts  and  a 
half;  two  stocks  for  the  neck;  a  pair  or  two  of  worsted 
stockings;  an  old  pair  of  corduroy  small-clothes;  a  rusty 
razor;  a  book  of  psalm  tunes  full  of  dog's  ears;  and  a 
broken  pitch-pipe.  As  to  the  books  and  furniture  of  the 
school-house,  they  belonged  to  the  community,  excepting 
Cotton  Mather's  History  of  Witchcraft,  a  New  England 
Almanac,  and  a  book  of  dreams  and  fortune-telling;  in 
which  last  was  a  sheet  of  foolscap  much  scribbled  and 
blotted,  by  several  fruitless  attempts  to  make  a  copy  of 
verses  in  honor  of  the  heiress  of  Van  Tassel.  These  magic 
books  and  the  poetic  scrawl  were  forthwith  consigned  to  the 
flames  by  Hans  Van  Ripper;  who,  from  that  time  forward, 
determined  to  send  his  children  no  more  to  school;  observ 
ing  that  he  never  knew  any  good  come  of  this  same  reading 
and  writing.  Whatever  money  the  schoolmaster  possessed, 
and  he  had  received  his  quarter's  pay  but  a  day  or  two 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  331 

before,  he  must  have  had  about  his  person  at  the  time  of 
his  disappearance. 

The  mysterious  event  caused  much  speculation  at  the 
church  on  the  following  Sunday.  Knots  of  gazers  and  gos 
sips  were  collected  in  the  churchyard,,  at  the  bridge,  and  at 
the  spot  where  the  hat  and  pumpkin  had  been  found.  The 
stories  of  Brouwer,  of  Bones,  and  a  whole  budget  of  others, 
were  called  to  mind;  and  when  they  had  diligently  con 
sidered  them  all,  and  compared  them  with  the  symptoms  of 
the  present  case,  they  shook  their  heads,  and  came  to  the 
conclusion,  that  Ichabod  had  been  carried  off  by  the  gallop 
ing  Hessian.  As  he  was  a  bachelor,  and  in  nobody's  debt, 
nobody  troubled  his  head  any  more  about  him;  the  school 
was  removed  to  a  different  quarter  of  the  Hollow,  and 
another  pedagogue  reigned  in  his  stead. 

It  is  true,  an  old  farmer,  who  had  been  down  to  Nviw 
York  on  a  visit  several  years  after,  and  from  whom  this  ac 
count  of  the  ghostly  adventure  was  received,  brought  home 
the  intelligence  that  Ichabod  Crane  was  still  alive;  that  he 
had  left  the  neighborhood  partly  through  fear  of  the  goblin 
and  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  partly  in  mortification  at  hav 
ing  been  suddenly  dismissed  by  the  heiress;  that  he  had 
changed  his  quarters  to  a  distant  part  of  the  country;  had 
kept  school  and  studied  law  at  the  same  time;  had  been  ad 
mitted  to  the  bar;  turned  politician;  electioneered;  written 
for  the  newspapers;  and  finally,  had  been  made  a  Justice  of 
the  Ten  Pound  Court.  Brom  Bones,  too,  who,  shortly 
after  his  rival's  disappearance,  conducted  the  blooming 
Katrina  in  triumph  to  the  altar,  was  observed  to  look 
exceedingly  knowing  whenever  the  story  of  Ichabod  was 
related,  and  always  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh  at  the  men 
tion  of  the  pumpkin;  which  led  some  to  suspect  that  he 
knew  more  about  the  matter  than  he  chose  to  tell. 

The  old  country  wives,  however,  who  are  the  best  judges 
of  these  matters,  maintain  to  this  day  that  Ichabod  was 
spirited  away  by  supernatural  means;  and  it  is  a  favorite 
story  often  told  about  the  neighborhood  round  the  winter 
evening  fire.  The  bridge  became  more  than  ever  an  object 
of  superstitious  awe;  and  that  may  be  the  reason  why  the 
road  has  been  altered  of  late  years,  so  as  to  approach  the 
church  by  the  border  of  the  mill-pond.  The  school-house 
being  deserted,  soon  fell  to  decay,  and  was  reported  to  be 


332  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

haunted  by  the  ghost  of  the  unfortunate  pedagogue;  and 
the  plough-boy,  loitering  homeward  of  a  still  summer  even 
ing,  has  often  fancied  his  voice  at  a  distance,  chanting  a 
melancholy  psalm  tune  among  the  tranquil  solitudes  of 
Sleepy  Hollow. 


POSTSCRIPT.  333 


POSTSCRIPT, 

FOUND    IN    THE   HANDWRITING   OF    MR.    KNICKERBOCKER. 

THE  preceding  Tale  is  given,  almost  in  the  precise  words 
in  which  I  heard  it  related  at  a  Corporation  meeting  of  the 
ancient  city  of  the  Manhattoes,*  at  which  were  present 
many  of  its  sagest  and  most  illustrious  burghers.  The  nar 
rator  was  a  pleasant,  shabby,  gentlemanly  old  fellow  in 
pepper-and-salt  clothes,  with  a  sadly  humorous  face;  and 
one  whom  I  strongly  suspected  of  being  poor — he  made 
such  efforts  to  be  entertaining.  When  his  story  was  con 
cluded  there  was  much  laughter  and  approbation,  particu 
larly  from  two  or  three  deputy  aldermen,  who  had  been 
asleep  the  greater  part  of  the  time.  There  was,  however, 
one  tall,  dry-looking  old  gentleman,  with  beetling  eye 
brows,  who  maintained  a  grave  and  rather  severe  face 
throughout;  now  and  then  folding  his  arms,  inclining  his 
head,  and  looking]  doAvn  upon  the  floor,  as  if  turning  a 
doubt  over  in  his  mind.  He  was  one  of  your  wary  men, 
who  never  laugh  but  upon  good  grounds — when  they  have 
reason  and  the  law  on  their  side.  When  the  mirth  of  the 
rest  of  the  company  had  subsided,  and  silence  was  restored, 
he  leaned  one  arm  on  the  elbow  of  his  chair,  and  sticking 
the  other  a-kimbo,  demanded  with  a  slight  but  exceedingly 
sage  motion  of  the  head,  and  contraction  of  the  brow,  what 
was  the  moral  of  the  story,  and  what  it  went  to  prove. 

The  story-teller,  who  was  just  putting  a  glass  of  wine  to 
his  lips,  as  a  refreshment  after  his  toils,  paused  for  a  moment 
looked  at  his  inquirer  with  an  air  of  infinite  deference,  and 
lowering  the  glass  slowly  to  the  table  observed  that  the 
story  was  intended  most  logically  to  prove: 

"That  there  is  no  situation  in  life  but  has  its  advant 
ages  and  pleasures — provided  we  will  but  take  a  joke  as  we 
find  it: 

*  New  York. 


334  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

"  That,  therefore,  he  that  runs  races  with  goblin  troop~ 
ers,  is  likely  to  have  rough  riding  of  it: 

"  Ergo,  for  a  country  schoolmaster  to  be  refused  the  hand 
of  a  Dutch  heiress,  is  a  certain  step  to  high  preferment  in 
tho  state." 

The  cautious  old  gentleman  knit  his  brows  tenfold  closer 
after  this  explanation,  being  sorely  puzzled  by  the  ratioci 
nation  of  the  syllogism;  while,  methought,  the  one  in  pep 
per-and-salt  eyed  him  with  something  of  a  triumphant  leei. 
At  length  he  observed  that  all  this  was  very  well,  but  still 
he  thought  the  story  a  little  on  the  extravagant — there  were 
one  or  two  points  on  which  he  had  his  doubts. 

"Faith,  sir," replied  the  story-teller,  "as  to  that  matter, 
I  don't  believe  one-half  of  it  myself." 

D.  K. 


UENVOY.  335 


L'ENVOY. 

Go,  little  booke,  God  send  thee  good  passage, 
And  specially  let  tliis  be  thy  prayere, 
Unto  them  all  that  thee  will  read  or  hear, 
Where  thou  art  wrong,  after  their  help  to  call, 
Thee  to  correct,  in  any  part  or  all, 

CHAUCEK'S  Bell  Dame  sans  Mercie. 

IN"  concluding  a  second  volume  of  the  Sketck-Book,  the 
Author  cannot  but  express  his  deep  sense  of  the  indul 
gence  with  which  his  first  has  been  received,  and  of  the 
liberal  disposition  that  has  been  evinced  to  treat  him  with 
kindness  as  a  stranger.  Even  the  critics,  whatever  may  be 
said  of  them  by  others,  he  has  found  to  be  a  singularly 
gentle  and  good-natured  race;  it  is  true  that  each  has  in 
turn  objected  to  some  one  or  two  articles,  and  that  these 
individual  exceptions,  taken  in  the  aggregate,  would  amount 
almost  to  a  total  condemnation  of  his  work;  but  then  he 
has  been  consoled  by  observing,  that  what  one  has  particu 
larly  censured,  another  has  as  particularly  praised;  and 
thus,  the  encomiums  being  set  off  against  the  objections, 
he  finds  his  work,  upon  the  whole,  commended  far  beyond 
its  deserts. 

He  is  aware  that  he  runs  a  risk  of  forfeiting  much  of 
this  kind  favor  by  not  following  the  counsel  that  has  been 
liberally  bestowed  upon  him;  for  where  abundance  of  valu 
able  advice  is  given  gratis,  it  may  seem  a  man's  own  fault 
if  he  should  go  astray.  He  only  can  say,  in  his  vindica 
tion,  that  lie  faithfully  determined,  for  a  time,  to  govern 
himself  in  his  second  volume  by  the  opinions  passed  upon 
his  first;  but  he  was  soon  brought  to  a  stand  by  the  con 
trariety  of  excellent  counsel.  One  kindly  advised  him  to 
avoid  the  ludicrous;  another,  to  shun  the  pathetic;  a  third 
assured  him  that  he  was  tolerable  at  description,  but  cau 
tioned  him  to  leave  narrative  alone;  while  a  fourth  declared 
that  lie  had  a  very  pretty  knack  at  turning  a  story,  and 


336  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

was  really  entertaining  when  in  a  pensive  mood,  but  was  grievously 
mistaken  if  he  imagined  himself  to  possess  a  spark  of  humor. 

Thus  perplexed  by  the  advice  of  his  friends,  who  each  in  turn  closed 
some  particular  path,  but  left  him  all  the  world  besides  to  range  in,  he 
found  that  to  follow  all  their  counsels  would,  in  fact,  be  to  stand  still. 
He  remained  for  a  time  sadly  embarrassed ;  when,  all  at  once,  the 
thought  struck  him  to  ramble  on  as  he  had  begun  ;  that  his  work  being 
miscellaneous,  and  written  for  different  humors,  it  could  not  be  ex 
pected  that  anyone  would  be  pleased  with  the  whole ;  but  that  if  it 
should  contain  something  to  suit  each  reader,  his  end  would  be  com 
pletely  answered.  Few  guests  sit  down  to  a  varied  table  with  an  equal 
appetite  for  every  dish.  One  has  an  elegant  horror  of  a  roasted  pig  ; 
another  holds  a  curry  or  a  devil  in  utter  abomination  ;  a  third  cannot 
tolerate  the  ancient  flavor  of  venison  and  wild  fowl ;  and  a  fourth,  of 
truly  masculine  stomach,  looks  with  sovereign  contempt  on  those  knick- 
nacks,  here  and  there  dished  up  for  the  ladies.  Thus  each  article  is 
condemned  in  its  turn ;  and  yet,  amidst  this  variety  of  appetites, 
seldom  does  a  dish  go  away  from  the  table  without  being  tasted  and 
relished  by  some  one  or  other  of  the  guests. 

With  these  considerations  he  ventures  to  serve  up  his  second  volume 
in  the  same  heterogeneous  way  with  his  first ;  simply  requesting  the 
reader,  if  he  should  find  here  and  there  something  to  please  him,  to 
rest  assured  that  it  was  written  expressly  for  intelligent  readers  like 
himself  ;  but  entreating  him,  should  he  find  anything  to  dislike,  to 
tolerate  it,  as  one  of  those  articles  which  the  Author  has  been  obliged 
to  write  for  readers  of  a  less  refined  taste. 

To  be  serious. — The  Author  is  conscious  of  the  numerous  faults  and 
imperfections  of  his  work,  and  well  aware  how  little  he  is  disciplined 
and  accomplished  in  the  arts  of  authorship.  His  deficiencies  are  also 
increased  by  a  diffidence  arising  from  his  peculiar  situation.  He  finds 
himself  writing  in  a  strange  land,  and  appearing  before  a  public  which 
he  has  been  accustomed,  from  childhood,  to  regard  with  the  highest 
feelings  of  awe  and  reverence.  He  is  full  of  solicitude  to  deserve 
then*  approbation,  yet  finds  that  very  solicitude  continually  embarras 
sing  his  powers,  and  depriving  him  of  that  ease  and  confidence  which 
are  necessary  to  successful  exertion.  Still  the  kindness  with  which  he 
is  treated  encourages  him  to  go  on,  hoping  that  in  time  he  may  acquire 
a  steadier  footing  ;  and  thus  he  proceeds,  half-venturing,  half -shrink 
ing,  surprised  at  bis  own  good  fortune,  and  wondering  at  his  own 
temerity, 


THE   END. 


Date  Due 


MM< 


I    1974 


PRINTED    IN    U.S.A.  CAT.      NO.      24       161 


A     000  546  077     9 


